I’ve found an island in Nicaragua “where extreme rustic adventure meets extreme tropical relaxation” in an ideal balance, said Josh Noel in the Chicago Tribune. Ometepe “couldn’t be designed more perfectly.” Rising from the serene waters of Lake Nicaragua, the 107-square-mile island is shaped like a figure eight, with a volcanic peak on either half and the land between adorned by a river as well as just enough beachfront restaurants. Even with 40,000 residents, a new airport, and a couple of museums, Ometepe “remains wonderfully slow and unspoiled.” Cows meander down the main road, and there are “few, if any, stoplights—or buildings taller than a palm tree.”
Hiking a volcano is “a quintessential island experience,” so I couldn’t pass up the chance. As my guide and I set off for the Maderas crater (elevation 4,570 feet), howler monkeys called from trees and the path wound through wet jungle to “a misty cloud forest.” I lost count of how many times I stumbled on the muddy incline, but after more than five hours of climbing, we were looking down into the crater—“360 degrees of thick, green growth in what once spewed smoke and lava.” The next day was a day of rest, highlighted by an afternoon lounge in a hammock with a rum in hand. When I tired of that, I strolled to the beach and waded in the “wonderfully warm” lake as children fished for sardines. Volcan Concepcion, Maderas’s still-active, 5,280-foot sibling, loomed in the distance.
On my last day, I discovered “what might be Ometepe’s greatest joy.” Ojo de Agua is a large natural spring with stone walls and a rock and silt floor, and its “wonderfully bright and clear” water felt “just cool enough to be refreshing.” At the pool’s edge, a vendor was selling coconuts filled with rum, and I learned that the mineralrich waters ostensibly had healing powers. In any case, this “serene little oasis” was worth a day unto itself,” and it made me wish my trip were longer. “Who knows? Had I stayed, I might have attempted that other volcano.”
Turkey’s ancient gem
“It sounds like a cliché, but Mardin really is a magical place,” said Bernd Brunner in TheSmartSet.com. An ancient city in eastern Turkey built on a mountain ridge, Mardin has little in common with bustling Istanbul, which lies 700 miles away. Mardin exists within its own time and place as one of upper Mesopotamia’s oldest and most unchanged settlements. From its well-preserved historic district more than 3,000 feet above sea level, one can spot the Tigris and Euphrates in the distance—the cradle of civilization. Somehow, Mardin’s charming, historic old town has “withstood the pressure to become a kind of open air museum” honoring a culture that goes back 7,000 years. Instead, it remains as vital as newer neighborhoods.
During a recent stay, I visited Mardin’s main street every day, reveling in its architecture, winding streets, and friendly (but not pushy) shopkeepers. The Muslim businesses sold aromatic soap and handmade jewelry, and I also passed a few Christian shops offering good Turkish red wine. One side trip off Main Street brought me to the centuries-old Emir hamam, or bathhouse, with a “fascinating interior” topped off with a colorful dome. Another day, I journeyed just outside the city to the “lovingly restored” Deyrulzafaran Monastery, a Christian site built in the 5th century. At the monastery’s chapel, Muslim visitors joined me in admiring its “beautifully colored images painted on cloth.” This was typical of Mardin: The city celebrates holidays from all religions and is justly proud of its multicultural heritage. Recently, Mardin even elected a 25-year-old Christian woman to be comayor with a 71-year-old Kurdish man.
Any visitor will be amazed that Mardin’s Old World magnificence does not draw more tourists. The city recently withdrew its bid to be recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site because of modern structures that obscure views of the historic district. As a fix, hundreds of newer, concrete buildings will be demolished. While the surrounding region modernizes, Mardin is becoming easier to reach—and word is getting out. “It’s becoming clear that Mardin will soon awake from its slumber—with or without UNESCO’s blessing.”
Getting to know Sydney’s ‘wildly cosmopolitan’ side
When I tell American acquaintances where I’m from, the first thing that pops into their minds is a soaring opera house, said Tony Perrottet in The New York Times. But it’s a soaring opera house that’s surely just a silent hulk in their minds, because they know Australians only as a horde of “beer-swilling, happy-go-lucky folk” who spend all their waking hours barbecuing steak on the beach. Look—I’ll admit that Sydney can distract first-time visitors with its “Rio-like natural beauty.” But on my last trip home, I was determined to reengage with the city I’ve always known to be “wildly cosmopolitan”—its museums packed, its creative class fecund, and its calendar bursting with arts festivals.
I focused on reconnecting with Sydney’s so-called inner city—a string of bohemian neighborhoods that surround the central business district. The area’s Victorian-era working-class housing has been prized for years, and yet it was “a mild shock” to see that Chippendale, the area I lived in as a student, was now a nonprofit arts district and a haven of quiet, leafy streets. I used a gallery map to explore, then hit a few higher-end galleries in Paddington and Woollahra. At the former Surry Hills studio of painter Brett Whiteley (1939–92), Whiteley’s Sydney Harbor paintings so dazzled me that they “sent me racing down to the very tourist zone I’d planned to avoid.” From the rooftop café at the harborside Museum of Contemporary Art, I enjoyed a glass of sparkling wine and “ravishing views” of the Opera House.
Australians are said to read more books per capita than the citizens of any other English-speaking country, and the Sydney Writers’ Festival celebrates that passion with around 300 events every May. Trying to explain Sydney’s special energy, the poetnovelist Luke Davies once told me that it’s a perfect place to do creative work because its natural beauty induces a trance-like state. Actually, he told me this during my recent trip while we both bobbed in the waves off Bondi Beach. As per a daily ritual of his, we had just walked to Bondi, past some Aboriginal carvings, and “plunged from a ledge straight into the churning ocean.”
Exploring mystical Wales
No offense to remote Ireland or Scotland, but northern Wales might just be the United Kingdom’s most magical locale, said Jim Farber in the New York Daily News. “It’s a wonder of a place,” an exotic land where psychedelic- colored sheep graze on velvet-green meadows and ancient castles dot the hilltops. The sheep can be explained: Their wool is dyed to indicate who owns them. But much harder to decipher is the strange language that often fills the air. “Here, people really do speak Welsh—with special aggression if they spy an English person.” I was glad to have a guide familiar with the language, and even gladder that he knew the back roads and the region’s small, hidden treasures. “Not that these remote parts of Wales only offer a sense of the surreal, or the past.”
During a recent six-day stay, I managed to ride a zip line in the town of Bethesda that was “infinitely scarier” than any I’d ridden before. (“Think of a gun shot with you as the bullet.”) I also partook of a “singularly horrifying” local pastime called coasteering, which entails donning a wetsuit, leaping repeatedly into 37-degree ocean water, and scrambling back to safety across razor-sharp rocks. “To be fair, some swear by this sport.” But I far preferred Wales’s more tranquil attractions.
There are many. Llangollen is a town of black-and-white Tudor houses and a canal ride that uses a single horse for power. Ruthin is a town of “adorable” stores, fine pubs, and a castle once owned by Henry VIII. Conwy has a castle of its own, plus a 6- by 10-foot dwelling advertised as “The Smallest House in Britain.” I had “the most regal afternoon tea of my life” at Chateau Rhianfa, a “storybook” hotel on the Isle of Anglesey just across a bridge from the mainland. Though I didn’t attempt to climb Mount Snowdon, the highest peak in the vast Snowdonia National Park, I did enjoy the next best thing: a ride in a 1903 trolley up a nearby peak and a descent into Llandudno, a seaside town with “a romantic sweep of beach” and a collection of pastel Victorian buildings that “look like they’re swirled with cream.”
Day-tripping through Italy’s Piedmont region
The owner of our hotel said that his city of 25,000 should be better known, and he was right, said David Stewart White in The Washington Post. Fossano, Italy, is “the perfect hub for a visit to Piedmont,” the region in northwestern Italy famous for stellar wines and marvelous food. A short drive east puts you in “wine heaven,” among the vineyards that produce Barolo, Barbera, and Barbaresco. A quick jaunt north puts you in Bra, the home of the slow-food movement. Whichever direction you choose to go, “a nearly 360-degree view of the Alps is always lurking,” and the day’s end returns you to an “ancient and atmospheric” town that tourists have yet to overrun. Our hotel? A converted 16th-century monastery that also houses Fossano’s best restaurant.
Our first day trip took us southeast to Valcasotto, a picturesque mountain hamlet now owned by one of Europe’s premier cheese-makers, Beppino Occelli. Samples of the local specialty came “with sides of history and cheese-making science,” and we devoured every scrap. The next day, we eagerly made wine our prey, venturing into the Langhe region for a guided wine tour that turned out to be “a sublimely relaxed experience.” Roaming oenophiles occasionally overrun some of Piedmont’s hill towns, but most of the vineyards we visited booked tours by appointment only, allowing us to converse casually with the winemakers while we savored each selection they chose to share.
Each day brought a new adventure. Fossano itself offered a maze of medieval streets lined with shops selling Milanquality designer goods. Nearby Saluzzo held its annual music festival on the summer solstice, and we took the occasion to visit Castello della Manta, a castle that houses a “breathtaking” series of 15thcentury frescoes. Everywhere we went, even the most modest bar served wonderful food, yet one place in the village of Serralunga d’Alba will go down as the most memorable. We ate a simple meal, accompanied by a bottle of the local dolcetto d’Alba. But we were sitting on a windswept terrace, relaxed as could be, and gazing out on “a 50-mile view of rolling vineyards and red-brick-fortified hill towns.”
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