Yea, tho I walk through the valley of Toscana, I fear no bad taste for thine greatest designers art with me. Guide me, oh lord, as I journey on a day trip the road well-traveled from Florence, on highways marked with signs I cannot read, following like a lamb to slaughter the wanderers before me who likewise imperiled their finances.

My prayers to thee are boundless for bestowing upon us the wondrous virtues of GPS, and for the manna of extra crusty rustic Italian bread provided as sustenance to help reach this holy shrine of consumerism.

Buffer me Lord, as I join the endless waves of pilgrims, who search vainly for meaning among the deep discounts, end-of-season specials and overstock. Enlighten me with your wise counsel when choosing trendy styles, and absolve the guilt which arises from impulse purchases.

By thy grace, mine eyes behold Miuccia, patron saint of Prada; Gucci, Pucci and Salvatore, the benevolent Ferragamo.

And yea, though I am commanded to eschew the wicked beast of materialism, forgive me, oh Lord, for at times, I cannot help myself. Forgive the weakness of my wallet to stay closed and of my ignorance to pay in a foreign currency when our dollar is low.

Instead, cast mine eyes upon thy glorious gifts that abound on earth, and shield me with your grace from Chanel and the dual red-carpet transgressors of Dolce and of Gabbana.

And yea, oh Lord, may you take pity on the sloven stretchy–panted masses praying to the false idol Lululemon and that your condemnation of thoughtless attire be swift and painless for those who dwell in sartorial purgatory.

Spare me, oh Lord, from the unholy sequined knits of Hugo, Karl and Louis, for they lead me to unspeakable temptation and sin.

Relieve Lord, humanity’s burden of rampant vanity and may your holiness deliver salvation to my beleaguered Visa.

For these, and all your good deeds Lord, I give thanks and say,

Amen.

About the author

Peppa is a professional photographer and lens-based artist, gallerist, curator, art consultant and independent writer on art and culture. She owns and operates Truth and Beauty Studio & Gallery in Vancouver BC.

Photo Credit: Peppa Martin

On a day trip from Mykonos, Greece, a local boatman drops us on Delos, a tiny offshore island.  Among marble ruins scattered over its parched landscapes, a story of grandeur and decline unfolds.

Introducing a world forgotten by time, guide Cassie says, “Here, you must imagine a flourishing cosmopolitan city, splendid with graceful buildings, marvelous temples, bustling harbours, market places, sophisticated residential quarters…and youthful population.”

Shepherding us past bleached sculpture fragments along the Sacred Way, through the gymnasium and ancient agora’s scanty remains, she continues, “Legendary birthplace of sun god Apollo and twin sister Artemis, Delos was the Aegean’s holiest place for the early Greeks.” Also headquarters for the Delian League, the confederation of Greek states stored vast treasury vaults there, including opulent gifts from city-states and merchants.

To keep Delos pure and sacred, an unconventional decree forbade births and deaths on this island. Over 40,000 young couples and singles lived privileged lives of splendour in elaborate homes fanning out around the exclusive theater district, our next discovery.

Extravagant status symbols, mosaics are prominent. The House of Dionysus features a famed floor-mosaic depicting the wine god himself, riding a panther. Typical of wealthy residences, a covered passageway leads to ground level rooms opening onto beautiful courtyards, also adorned with mosaics and mural decorations. Other prominent houses include House of Trident, House of Dolphins and House of Masks, with another notorious wine god mosaic…likely an actors drinking hole. And headless statues still guard House of Cleopatra.

These villas have been roofed to protect floor mosaics covering courtyard cisterns in each house. Collecting water was essential, since Delos was as parched then as today. “Built about 300 BC, a massive cistern down the hill supplied the town’s water. We’ll visit it next, behind the theater,” smiles Cassie.

Near the open-air theatre’s marble seats, sanctuaries of foreign gods surround the foot of Mount Kythnos. This tax-free international port had attracted prosperous merchants, bankers and mariners from far away Egypt and Assyria…who erected grand temples to their own gods, though always recognizing Apollo as chief deity.

We explore the celebrated Temple of Apollo, the oldest shrine. Dedicated in the 7th-century BC, sixteen smooth, marble lions once crouched along Avenue of Lions. Five  original lions are protected in the museum; five weathered leonine replicas and fragmented torsos of three others now guard Sacred Lake. “After wandering many countries, Leto came here to birth twins Apollo and Artemis in this once-beautiful lake,” Cassie recounts.

Though some valuable island sculptures were transferred to Greek museums and even abroad, most of its immense wealth had been pillaged and looted centuries ago. Even nearby islanders ground marble statuary into whitewash.

Back at the wharf, Cassie concludes, “Ancient beliefs became irrelevant and trade routes shifted, leading to Delos’ decline and abandonment. By the 3rd century AD, only a small Christian settlement remained. Today, the only inhabitants are remnants of past glory…and their caretakers!” A World Heritage Site since 1990, Delos sanctuary proves a remarkable glimpse into ancient times, a day trip worth pursuing.

When You Go:

Boats for Delos leave Hora (the Old Jetty at the western end of the harbour) starting at 9am [except Monday, when the site is closed] A ferry also runs, schedule is posted.

About the Author:
Chris Millikan is a freelance writer/photographer living near Vancouver, BC. As a former teacher and elementary school principal, Chris now presents articles as an inviting ‘curriculum’ depicting the joys of travel. Many BC community newspapers, Open Road Driver Magazine and Senior Living Magazine regularly publish her articles. In-flight Magazines, the Vancouver Sun and Province have also featured her stories. As BC Association of Travel Writers Vice President, she supports colleagues’ aspirations. And traveling off the beaten track with writer/photographer partner and hubby Rick, their published tales reflect great adventures. Their 2009 Kalama Award acknowledged an array of their stories reflecting the rich culture of Maui, Molokai and Lanai.

After commandeering a flip-down seat near the crowded doorway, I hovered over my suitcase like a broody hen as our train left the airport and headed towards Barcelona.

A young Spanish student, Francesco, perched beside me and enquired as to my final destination. When I told her I was planning to walk a few blocks from the station to my hotel, her saucer brown eyes looked shocked. “Ah, non, non. It is already dark and your suitcases may be kidnapped. The bad people here can run very, very fast.”

After a brief consultation with my husband, who didn’t relish fighting off any Spanish brigands, we heeded her advice and decided to take a taxi. On arrival at the main Estacio de Franca, she summoned a taxi for us and in the local lingo, gave the driver specific directions to our hotel.

With warm hugs, she wished us well and said she looked forward to meeting us at our hotel. This comment puzzled me until she confided that this farewell would guarantee that the driver would take a direct route to our destination.

Minutes later, we were ensconced in our room on the top floor of the Hotel Sagrada Familia. We were thirsty and my husband left to shop for some bottled water. Discarding my airline clothes, I headed towards the shower when suddenly in mid stride, I was plunged into pitch darkness.

Poised in the doorway, I vainly groped around for a light switch. Wrapped in what I felt to be a bath towel, I resigned myself to await my husband’s return. When he did so, the mystery was solved: the hotel had card key access, so that as soon as he left the room with the card, the electric power had automatically cut out.

Being neophytes in this north eastern Spanish city, we set off the next morning for the Plaza de Catalunya, a huge square bedecked with fountains—the Spanish equivalent of London’s Trafalgar Square.

Here we boarded the Barcelona Bus Turistic which loops around three distinctly different areas of the city. From the top deck of the bus, we admired the Modernist architecture, spacious plazas and the state-of-the-art seafront which came into being when Barcelona hosted the Summer Olympics in 1992.

The city’s favorite eccentric son is Antoni Gaudi whose flamboyant architecture can be admired in several of Barcelona’s buildings and public places. His style incorporates wavy lines, weird sculptures and intricate designs made of thousands of fragments of colorful ceramics.

His most renowned masterpiece is the Sagrada Familia (the Temple of the Sacred Family). Construction of this unconventional church began in 1882 and is an ongoing project. Nevertheless, visitors flock to this site in droves and stare upwards at the carved facades and eight bejeweled spires which look rather like molten wax candlesticks.

The following day being a Sunday, we joined the locals for a relaxing saunter down Las Ramblas, a 2-kilometer-long pedestrian boulevard which Victor Hugo eulogized as “the most beautiful street in the world.”

With the Mediterranean sun beating down from a cloudless sky, the treed avenue was awash with a sea of people strolling past colorful flower sellers and kiosks. Occasionally we paused to admire the mime artists dressed up like Greek statues or conquistadors. For us, it was the perfect place to people watch and cool off with a crème brulee-flavored gelato.

From the seaward end of Las Ramblas, we walked towards Barcelona’s fascinating Gothic Quarter. Ludicrously trying to follow our progress on a map, the shaded labyrinthine streets fooled our logical sense of direction at every turn.

Following the strains of a lively orchestra, we found ourselves in a square overshadowed by a huge Gothic cathedral. We had stumbled upon the sardana, Catalonia’s national dance. Since visitors are welcome to join the ever-widening circles, I tried to participate in the hops, skips and jumps, but my unskilled footwork left much to be desired.

Captivated by the atmosphere of the Gothic quarter with its Roman walls and medieval palaces, we sequestered ourselves in a quiet corner of La Taverna del Born, the quintessential spot for a leisurely lunch of garlic mushrooms and grilled squid.

Although we were looking forward to joining a Mediterranean cruise the following day, I knew we would miss the unique ambience of Barcelona.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Canadian freelance travel editor Caroline Jackson, who lives in North Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast. View her website at www.crestlynn.com.

Photos by Hamish Jackson:
1: Plaza de Catalunya, Barcelona. Hamish Jackson photo.
2: Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia. Hamish Jackson photo.
3: Catalonia’s National Dance, the sardana. Hamish Jackson photo.

What a difference a door makes!

“Tourists land in here, take one look at the surroundings and know right away there’s been some mistake,” says Johan Creytens, owner of the Heritage Hotel in Bruges, Belgium, the city of canals that bills itself as ‘The Venice of the North.’

It’s an easy mistake to make. The Heritage, a four-star establishment, is located at Niklaas Desparsstraat 11. Right next door, at Niklaas Desparsstraat 9, is the Hotel Nicolas, with a two-star rating. It isn’t uncommon, according to Johan, for a travel-weary tourist stumbling out of a taxi late at night to wander into the wrong lodgings.

“We don’t consider ourselves competitors,” says Johan. “They serve a particular clientele and so do we. If somebody chooses the wrong place – and it happens occasionally – we cheerfully send the guest next door, and they do likewise.”

The Heritage provides all the amenities its four-star designation promises, from a sumptuous breakfast buffet in a beautiful salon setting to rooms you’re thrilled to get back to after a long day of playing Jo(e) Tourist. A standard room currently goes for 140 euros single and 152 euros double. Breakfast is an extra 15 euros per person.

The Nicolas, on the other hand, rates two stars, so what you get is fairly basic. The breakfast is hearty but fairly unimaginative and the rooms, while clean and comfortable, aren’t anything to write home about. This hotel’s standard room is a wallet-pleasing 50 euros single and 60 euros double.

I recently stayed at the Hotel Heritage as their guest and they put me up in their showcase Belfry Suite on the top floor where skylights on each section of the sloped ceiling offered a breathtaking view of a different church spire.

This top-of-the-line suite came with a cozy sitting room, linen sheets on one of the most comfortable beds I’ve ever slept in and a brightly lit and richly tiled bathroom featuring a double sink, Jacuzzi bath and separate shower cabinet. The normal tariff for this suite is 404 euros single and 416 euros double.

Johan and his wife Isabelle purchased their historic building in 1992. It had been a bank for about 70 years and had had a varied existence before that, dating back more than 500 years. Extensive renovations turned the edifice into a luxurious inn and spa – and a residence for the Creytens who live in a suite on-site so they can keep close tabs on its day-to-day operations.

I also made a point of going next door to visit the Hotel Nicolas and can honestly say I would stay there without hesitation. I have paid a lot more for a lot less.

The Nicolas is also family operated by Yiling and Thomas Timmerman and they too take pride in what they have to offer. “We’re not in the same league as the Heritage,” says Yiling. “But we offer clean, comfortable accommodation for travelers keeping a fairly close eye on their budget.”

One attractive feature of these hotels is that they are just a short walk from the Market Square, where boutiques and shops offer a cornucopia of Belgian specialities, including chocolate, lace and myriad souvenirs.

There is also a vast array of eating establishments nearby. For the mussel aficionado, this popular mollusk is the main bill of fare at many Bruges restaurants and outdoor cafés, served by the heaping bowlful and accompanied by some of the crunchiest and tastiest <> (French fries) this side of Paris.

No trip to Bruges would be complete without a visit to a chocolate shop. On the must-visit list is The Chocolate Line at Simon Stevinplein 19. Owner and grand chef, Dominique Persoone, is a gregarious man who is passionate about chocolate.

As much an artist as a cook, he is continually experimenting with cocoa imports from around the world, coming up with delicacies that are fun to eat and incredibly tasty.

If you’re in his shop when he comes out front for a brief respite from his busy kitchen, he might treat you to a few samples and an amusing patter about his latest creation.

One proffered bonbon had a small plastic vial sticking out the top and a crusting of salt on one side of the chocolate. This is Dominique’s “Tequila Surprise”, which he urges you to sample just like you would the drink.

You pick up the chocolate, lick the salt from its side, pull out the vial and allow the tequila it contains to drizzle onto your tongue. You then bite into the chocolate to complete the ritual, flooding your taste buds with a tart lime filling.

Dominique’s ‘chocolate line’ also consists of such flavours as cigar (the leaves of top-of-the-line Havanas are soaked for a period of time to extract the tobacco essence), chili pepper, and a combination of black olive, basil and sun-dried tomato. Each of these odd-sounding sweets was sampled reluctantly – then finished with lip-smacking enthusiasm.

Dominique is also a VIP with the Bruges Chocolate Makers Guild and he and his colleagues spend much time busily preparing for the city’s annual Choco-Laté Festival, held around Easter time each spring. Chefs, bakers and chocolate makers dispense samples of their wares from dozens of booths set up in the city centre.

The Heritage and Nicolas, as is the case with many other Bruges hotels, offer special rates and extra goodies like a canal boat ride and other perks during the festival to get you into the mood for a chocolate spree.

No matter which hotel you choose in this medieval West Flanders city, their doors will open onto an unforgettable experience that, just like the chocolate you’ll be nibbling on, will leave you hungering for more.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes military author and freelance travel writer Tom
Douglas who lives in Oakville, ON, Canada..

About the photos:
1: Side-by-side hotels. Heritage Hotel photo.
2: A view from the deck of the Heritage Hotel. Heritage Hotel photo.
3: In Antwerp you can see the sites from a horse-drawn carriage. Tom Douglas photo.

For more information:
www.hotel-heritage.com
www.hotelnicolas.be
www.visitbelgium.com

Perched at the convergence of Europe and Asia, bridging cultures and histories, Istanbul keeps the propulsive rhythm of a bustling metropolis. Once the centrepiece to an empire spreading from Iraq to Algeria, ancient Constantinople remains a place where the markets are always busy, the streets full of life, and the air a cacophony of horns, touts and the call to prayer.

The esteemed Topkapi Palace provides an unrivalled window into the lifestyles of the Ottoman sultans. Constructed by Mehmet II, it became the sultans’ residence under Suleyman, until the nineteenth century, when sultans built lavish European-inspired palaces along the Bosphorus.

Highlights of any palace visit, the Harem and Treasury require separate admissions, and are best seen early to avoid lineups. A labyrinth of courtyards and gardens, Topkapi’s Harem features a terraced pool, and some 300 rooms. A small number are open for viewing, astounding with their tile and gilt work.

Often depicted as a den of debauchery, conduct in the sultan’s private residence was steeped tradition. Shared by the sultan’s four wives, their children, and numerous concubines, the first wife to give birth to a son became the sultan’s ‘first lady.’

The wealth of the Treasury is simply unsurpassed. Gold and gem-encrusted daggers, jewel boxes and even armour abound. Coupled with two towering, metre tall golden candlesticks and several jaw-dropping solid gold thrones they convey a largesse simply indescribable.

The nearby “Underground Palace,” is an ornate sixth century cistern. Containing just enough water for effect, the reservoir offers an intriguing light show, set to the gentle lilt of pipe music, following you along a boardwalk, winding amongst the 336 columns.

One column, featuring a design similar to tadpoles, captures my attention. Encouraging you to place your finger into a shoulder height hole, locals delight as looks of dread wash over tourists. Just beyond, two giant Medusa’s head pedestals stare eerily outward, their significance unestablished.

Once home to chariot races and Byzantine riots, Istanbul’s Hippodrome today forms a broad pedestrian mall. Three towering monuments line the centre, symbols of Istanbul’s preeminence across numerous civilizations.

The decapitated Serpent Column (erected to celebrate Persia’s defeat) and the naked and pock-marked limestone Colossus, bear the scars of the hippodrome’s violent history. Only the Egyptian obelisk is unscathed, featuring glyphs dating back 3500 years.

The adjacent Sultan Ahmet or ‘Blue’ Mosque ranks among the world’s most famous religious shrines. The only mosque featuring six minarets, worshiper Aydin explains the legend behind this uniqueness. “The Sultan instructed his architect to build the minarets of gold. However, recognizing the prohibitive cost, the architect switched the words for gold (altin) and six (alti).”

The ‘blue’ nickname derives from the ornate flowered tiles of the mosque’s upper gallery, and the predominance of blue in its painted ornaments. Bronze gilt covers much of the interior and woodwork is encrusted with ivory and mother of pearl. The mosque appears particularly beautiful at night, its domes and minarets aglow, the surrounding gardens bathed in moonlight.

Converted to a mosque as Islam swept the Middle East, St. Sophia is Istanbul’s oldest church. Unique in retaining lavish details from both faiths, Christian mosaics coexist with an elaborate Islamic mihrab and minbar.

Eight giant discs bearing the holy names of Allah, Mohammed, the four Caliphs and Mohammed’s grandchildren hang from the ceiling. Despite Islamic traditions against depictions of God, Sophia’s entry boasts a gold mosaic of Christ in his mother’s arms and Christian murals appear in the church’s upper galleries. Covered over during the church’s conversion, they were revealed as restoration commenced.

The Valens Aqueduct and Sulimaniye Mosque entail a brief tram ride to Istanbul University. Emerging at the leafy Beyazit Mosque grounds, broad walkways lead towards the university and its imposing southern gate.

The impression is almost of entering a castle, through the pigeon-filled courtyard. Serving as the Ministry of War in the Ottoman era, Istanbul’s university is one of the oldest in the world, established in 1453.

Sulimaniye Mosque is widely considered the most fabulous of Istanbul’s mosques. The treed outer courtyard, surrounds an inner atrium of twenty-eight mini domes, whose marble and granite columns originally formed the Hippodrome.

The perimeter is marked by four minarets, each with ten balconies, symbolizing Sulimaniye’s status as the fourth sultan after the conquest of Istanbul, and tenth ruler of the Ottoman empire.

A magnificent fete of engineering, Sulimaniye’s central dome spans nearly thirty metres, supported by four massive piers. Acoustics were refined to the angles inside the domes and pipes running beneath the floor, carry the imam’s prayers to the furthest corners of the building.

Istanbul’s charm is rooted in its blending of modernity with relics centuries old. Spanning Ataturk Boulevard, the Valens Aqueduct, stretches nearly a kilometre, once providing water to the imperial palaces. Today the two-storey aqueduct appears like a giant toll booth, several lanes of traffic passing beneath its arches.

After a day of traipsing Istanbul’s historic sites, a dinner cruise on the Bosphorus provides a fine way to wind down. Numerous options are available, from municipal ferries to chartered yachts. Major hotels often have their own vessels, or reserve spaces with tours.

Enjoying your meal against a light breeze, there is no greater tranquility than sailing into Istanbul’s sunset.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Chuck Wightman, a freelance travel writer who lives in Burlington, Ontario.

Photos by Chuck Wightman:

1: Bustling downtown Istanbul.
2: Istanbul’s Sultan Ahmet, or “Blue Mosque.”
3: Locals enjoy fishing from a bridge.

Oktoberfest: one festival, 17 days, 6.2 million visitors, 6.9 million steins of beer, 104 oxen, 521, 872 chickens and 142, 253 pairs of pork sausages.

Yes, the hedonistic Munich-based beer festival is rowdy, raucous, and raunchy. The kind of hazy place where tourists and proud Bavarians stagger together to clink steins of amber lager and eat mountains of oversized food: entire Bavarian chickens, wurstl sausages, gigantic pickles, and massive pretzels.

Above all, they drink beer – one-litre mugs at a time, known in Germany as maß (pronounced “mass”).

Upon entering the Oktoberfest grounds, you are first met by fair rides. Spinning, whirling, gravity-defying, vomit-inducing rides. Next, comes the music. Faint at first, and then building into a cacophony of accordions, horned instruments and boisterous cheering.

These were the drinking songs my best friend and I would never quite understand, but would grow to love during our 48-hour stint at the festival.

What the heck, we thought, we’ll just take a look inside the first drinking tent we see. And so, we shrugged and gingerly stepped into Hofbräuhaus, destined not to emerge until midnight.

The “tent” was not really a tent at all, but a semi-permanent structure that houses 9,000 beer-drinking merry-makers.

Some, we could tell, had been there since the 9:am bell, blankly staring out from under their pointy grey souvenir hats; swaying gently under their own weight with tilted, half-full steins in their hands.

“Ein Prozit. Ein Prozit. Der Geme … something …something … keit,” singers trailed off as they sung along to the most popular drinking song, and raised their overflowing steins in the air.

Then a barrage of misplaced American songs followed: New York, New York, Take Me Home, Country Roads and Hey! Baby.

A bar maid wearing a traditional bust-popping dirndl – walked by our section. Why not grab, “Ein maß bitte?”

When she returned, she was bear-hugging 10 steins, each weighing at least two kilos – though legend has it, the festival record is 18. She slammed them down on the table with vigour and started collecting the money before moving on to the next table.

Though the festival runs for just over two weeks, rumour has it that good waitresses can clear thousands of Euro. Many of them work in Munich’s beer halls the rest of the year or have had their jobs handed down to them through generations.

A couple of steins later, we were caught up in the circus atmosphere, singing along with the songs and cheersing our neighbours: “Eins, zwei, g’suffa!” (One, two, cheers!)

Later that night, amidst the chaos, we met a middle-aged Bavarian man, dressed in traditional lederhosen – which literally means “leather trousers”.

As someone who has been surviving the Oktoberfest festival for most of his life, he had a piece of advice for us:

“These tourists, they don’t know the trick to drinking,” he said knowingly as he dug into his hearty chicken and potato dinner and took a long swig of the Bavarian nectar.

“You drink a few steins, then you eat.” He proceeded to break a pretzel into pieces and hand them out to everyone at our table.

“Now you can drink some more,” he said with a grin, gesturing to the beer. And drink we did. And drink. And drink.

Bavarians have been celebrating Oktoberfest since 1810. The festival, which they affectionately call “Die Wiesn,” began as a celebration in honour of the Bavarian Crown Prince Ludwig and his new bride, Princess Therese von Sachsen-Hildburghausen – tongue twister, I know.

In the beginning, the festival actually did start in October, and lasted for five days, but because the Bavarians were having so much fun, they decided to prolong it, and push the start date forward into mid-September, when the weather is better.

Thousands of locals still attend the event. Many tend to stick to the more traditional tents, while the younger Bavarians and backpacker crowd gravitate to tents like Hoffbrau, which has a reputation for being one of the wildest of the bunch.

The locals we met were very friendly and hospitable, including Peter, who wore a cut-off jean vest, plastered with iron-on patches, depicting derogatory slogans against the enemy soccer team. His mom had been sewing them on for him since he was 10.

“Forgive me if I’m smelling,” Peter said bashfully. “But, it is not my belief to washing this jacket.”

Peter taught us that the lyrics to the most popular drinking song were: “Ein Prozit. Ein Prozit der Gemütlichkeit.”

Despite Peter’s efforts, we promptly forgot the words as the rest of the night blurred into a haze of colour and sounds: clinking glass, green vests, boisterous laughter, brass horns, wide smiles and copper-coloured lager.

Last call came quickly, and we were soon outside the beer tent again. Our eyes adjusted to the blinking fair rides. The aroma of roasted nuts, candyfloss, and musty beer filled our nostrils as we staggered our way back to the hostel.

Our first night had passed at Oktoberfest and our stein-carrying hands were grooved with temporary bruises between the thumb and forefinger – a common festival symptom, so I’m told.

We left Munich a few days later with the phantom lyrics of Ein Prozit ringing in our ears and souvenir steins destined to weigh down our backpacks for the remainder of the trip.

To this day, I don’t know how I drank multiple litres of beer without suffering from the most brutal hangover known to man.

It must be the magic of Bavarian beer. If they have been throwing the world’s largest fair for nearly 200 years, they most certainly have brewing down to a science.

It must be the magic of Bavarian beer. If they have been throwing the world’s largest fair for nearly 200 years, they most certainly have brewing down to a science.

Travel Editor Vic Foster’s guest this week is Amber Turnau, a freelance writer currently living in Whistler.

It must be the magic of Bavarian beer. If they have been throwing the world’s largest fair for nearly 200 years, they most certainly have brewing down to a science.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Amber Turnau, a freelance writer currently living in Whistler, B.C., site of the 2010 Winter Olympics.

About the photos:
1:.Munich’s most popular breweries host beer tents with various themes. Photo by
P. Schnizler, courtesy of FV Amuc, (Munich Tourist Office).

2: Two waitresses carry heavy steins of Bavarian lager to a table. Photo by
Wlfried Hösl, courtesy of FV Amuc, (Munich Tourist Office)

3: This horn player participates in the Costume and Riflemen’s Parade, one of
the many spectacles of Oktoberfest. Photo by Pierre Rouchaléon, courtesy of
FV Amuc,(Munich Tourist Office)

If You Go:
* Oktoberfest 2008 runs September 20 to October 5.
* Book your hotel or hostel room well in advance (hostelworld.com is a great
site).
* If you’d like to let someone else do the planning, there are a variety of tour
operators that offer Oktoberfest tours, including Busabout (www.busabout.com).
* Leave all valuables (passport, wallet, mobile phone) back at the hotel.
* Buy a disposable camera.
* Wear your grubbiest clothes.
* Make sure you eat and drink water in between steins.
* Bring a map and address of where you’re staying – in case you have one stein too many.

Nimes. Chances are you know the name. Like as not you have worn it.

This ancient city of southern France shares the tough durable quality of denim, the famed cotton work pants rooted in the California Gold Rush of the 1840’s. It is also an ideal focal point for a memorable and reasonably priced touring experience.

Any doubt Nimes is unique flees the moment you set eyes upon the imposing grandeur of its 20,000 seat Roman Coliseum.

For 2000 years it has remained in continual use and is the centre piece of seasonal ferias; festivals which transform the city of 130,000 into a little bit of Spain replete with street bands, parades and bullfighting.

Already pedestrian friendly, the old city balloons onto surrounding streets in a riot of tented venues for food, drink and merry-making. Music strains throb deep into the night from bodegas gorged with celebrants dancing and singing.

Nimes’ Imperial Roman grandeur is commanding. The Maison Carree (Square House), one of the best preserved Roman temples in the world, still dominates the old forum.

A short walk away the resplendent 17th century Jardins de la Fountaine incorporate the ruins of the Temple of Diana and the grounds of the old Roman baths. Here where Celts once worshiped their water divinity Nimois elegant terraced grounds, ballustraded walkways and statues sprawl and locals play at Petanque.

High above, Tour Magne, the imposing remnant of the original Roman watchtower, affords an expansive view of Nimes, including the not-too-distant Mediterranean.

Then there is the castellum, the central water distribution point of a remarkable waterworks network intricately associated with a wonder of the ancient world. That wonder is a 49 kilometre aqueduct which brought water from distant Uzes.

At Pont du Gard, a UNESCO World Heritage site, the towering aqueduct crosses the Gardon River in a marvel of engineering and endurance.

Pont du Gard is but one of dozens of destinations easily within a day’s sojourn from Nimes. Traveling by rail, bus or car through villages and towns, past expansive vineyards and olive groves, whose ageless trees twist in unseen breezes, opens up the wealth of what is to be seen and done so close to Nimes.

Stretched along the Rhone Arles boasts its own well preserved and equally well used Roman Coliseum which compliments its actively used amphitheater and historic medieval walks. A self guided Van Gogh walking tour, available at the tourist information centre, takes you to spots the enigmatic genius set up his easel and created masterpieces.

The vastness of Place de Comedie in Montpellier, surrounded by cafés, wrought iron balconied apartments and throngs of visitors, hums to the strains of accordion playing buskers and leads to the gardened stretches of Esplanade du Gaulle with its fountains and open air market.

Avignon, the famed Papal city, rises majestically over the Rhone and the remnants of Pont de St. Benizet, more popularly known as the famous Pont d’Avignon of song.

For one hundred years the Popes ruled from this walled city and built their edifices to last. You need to allow for a very long day here if you wish to explore the Palais du Pape, walk the Pont d’Avignon and any of the many other historic sites open to the public.

Sete, The Venice of France, its swath of canals brimming with colourful watercraft and lined with cafes, sparkles under a Mediterranean Sun. It is a worthwhile clamber to the viewpoint (183 metres)on Mont St.Clair for a panoramic vista of sea and city.

The Saturday market in Uzes crowds the arcaded squares and spills on to the streets of this medieval town under the dominating spire of the Duke’s castle.

The village and ruined fortifications of Les Beau de Provence, sculpted from the hills looming high above vineyards and olive groves, attest to a dramatic history.

Walking its steep and narrow cobbled streets with shops and homes carved out of the rock or clinging to the slopes transports you back to a time when the lords of Mannville, who claimed descent from one of the three Magi (Balthazar), ruled the land.

A hanging garden of homes and terraces suspended from the sky cling to the cliff sides at Gorde. The wide folds of the village sweep away dress-like beneath its hilltop castle.

Graced with miles of sandy beach the seaside town of Saintes Marie de la Mer gathers around its fortified medieval church famed for the Black Madonna and the annual ritual of her journey to the sea.

With haunting origins harkening to the very birth of Christianity and reverenced by both the Roma and the Gardian she rests in the vaulted crypt of the church, warmed by hundreds of votive candles.

The vast wetlands of The Camargue with its Flamingoes and Egrets, famed Guardians on their white steeds tending to herds of the ebony bulls whose days of glory and death await them in the bull rings. Endless horizons affords mini holidays at horse riding ranches where the visitor can explore the beaches on horseback or bike the trails of its National Park.

Founded in 1240 by King Louis IX, later Saint Louis, and from where he departed on the great crusades to the Middle East, the walled medieval city of Aigues Mortes rises sharply from the Mediterranean shore.

Here the Tower of Constance was long a prison for protestant Huguenots one of whom, Marie Durand, was to pine for 38 years behind its walls.

Enough? Two weeks gave us but a sample of this vintage. Nimes is easily a focal point rich in its own attractions and central to a host of destinations to keep you busy for a month.

We all know denim achieved fame for its toughness and resiliency but its joy too is in its comfort. So too does its namesake let you laze back, see, learn and enjoy.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes author and freelance travel writer Glen Cowley, who lives in Chemainus, on Vancouver Island.

Photos by Glen Cowley:
1: The Maisson Carrree, one of the best preserved Roman temples in the world.
2: Overview of the Pont du Gard aqueduct.
3: The medieval town of Gorde.

The Tuscan sky put on a twilight show, complete with rosy clouds and amber rays, as a pair of nuns crossed the River Arno’s pale stone bridge.

The nuns eclipsed a couple at the bridge’s center who fell into an embrace. Students wearing cool wraparound sunglasses glided by on bikes as women in fashionable wool suits sauntered arm in arm.

I’d arrived in Pisa just in time for the passegiata – the early evening stroll.

Every year millions of travelers dash into Pisa. They snap photos, pick up schlocky souvenirs and dash away. The town is one of the world’s most famous “tourist quickies.” I go more for the La Dolce Vita style than the “quickie” when it comes to Italian travel.

From the moment I landed in Pisa’s small, hassle-free International Airport, my plan to start off my Tuscan vacation by immediately indulging in the simple slow rhythms of Italy began to work.

What followed were heavenly jet-lagged days, as I poked around to find what lies beyond Pisa’s main attraction.

What I discovered was a part of town most tourists miss, even though it’s a short walk from the tower: the heart of the historic center. This area is home to the town’s other 12th century treasure, the University of Pisa, which still flourishes as one of Europe’s most prestigious academic centers.

The neighborhood’s look is a sublime blend of arched cobble-stoned streets, Gothic churches and Romanesque palazzos infused with the vibrant energy of young bike-riding students.

This is what the poet Elizabeth Barrett Browning was writing about when she called Pisa “one of those small, delicious towns of silence.”

My accommodations at the Royal Victoria Hotel were the ideal setting for me to take in the city as travelers on the Grand Tour had centuries ago.

Run by the Piegaja family since its opening in 1837, the rambling palazzo features huge marble staircases opening up to grand salons and a rooftop terrace where guests can order up wine and enjoy the view.

My spacious single room (bathroom across the hall) cost only 65 euro, and included a lavish breakfast buffet served in the hotel’s gracious dining
hall.

The creak of fruit and vegetable carts along with merchants’ “buon giornos” woke me in the morning. It was my cue to tie on my scarf, walk around the corner, and blend with the locals at the daily market.

I wandered the harvest display of giant porcini mushrooms, inhaling the sharp smells of aged pecorino cheeses and the sweet aroma of hot pine nuts from a paneficio where Pisa’s specialty pignole cookies were being baked.

It was easy to be lured away from the signs that pointed to Il Torre (The Tower). Camera-toting tourists streamed by me as I headed in the opposite direction to visit a mini-gothic masterpiece: the Santa Maria della Spina church.

It was pouring rain as I approached it – perfect to admire the intricate rooftop as water streamed off its carved pinnacles, angels and saints and then gushed out the mouths of its gargoyles.

Another diversion around the corner from my hotel was The Borgo Stretto, the historic center’s main walkway where 19^th century storefronts offered enticing displays of shoes and lingerie, gelato and candies.

I slipped into one of the oldest cafes on the stretch, Salza dalla 1898, for a pick-me-up cappuccino and a few homemade chocolates served in their elegant back salon.

The best place for me to rub elbows with the locals (literally) was at the Vineria alla Piazza, steps from the market, where diners are seated at long wooden communal tables.

A chalkboard outside lists the daily fare, which changes according to what’s fresh that day.

Waitresses in denim mini-skirts, t-shirts, black tights and boots expertly pulled off the casual-sexy look while serving fantastic salads and pastas to a lively cross-section of clientele: mammas with their bambini in strollers, boisterous university students, businessmen greeting each other with the traditional double-cheek kiss.

A “join the famiglia” vibe attracted me to the many small trattorie and osterie in the area, all which offered three course dinners with wine for 30 euro.

My favorite was Osteria Cavalieri, where in a cozy alcove lined with wine bottles, I enjoyed taglioni con funghi – pasta with a light mushroom sauce.

Before splurging for dinner at the Hotel Relais dell’Orologio (Pisa’s only five star), I peeked around at the upstairs rooms. The former 14th century tower house has been meticulously renovated, blending Baroque-chic style with the building’s original Renaissance frescoes.

“You are… I don’t know if there is an English translation for this word…,” said the waiter, as I finished off bisteca fiorentina in the hotel’s jewel box of an intimate dining room, “You are solare. It means you are…”

“Cheerful?” I guessed.

“No… deeper than that. Like… it means you are from the sun… deeply happy…”

I always enjoy the flirtations of Italian waiters, and he didn’t have to go further for me to agree with him. The perfect word for how I was feeling after having spent a couple of days of blending in with authentic Pisan life, could only be expressed in Italian:

Yes, I was solare.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes Susan Van Allen, a journalist based in Los Angeles who writes frequently about Italian travel.

Photos by Susan Van Allen:
1: Souvenir stall near the Tower of Pisa.
2: The Borgo Stretto in Pisa’s Historic Center.
3: The Scarlatti Tobacco shop (from 1898) on the Borgo Stretto.

As our friend’s private boat pulled to a stop in a berth at Torcello, my husband announced with a sweep of his hand toward the island: “Welcome to the forgotten island!”

The statement was a contradiction to the scene on the bank in front of us: a large group of teenagers followed by separate groups of tourists were strolling past.

Seeing my confusion, my husband explained Torcello’s changing fortunes since its peak of influence as a cultural and commercial hub of the Venetian lagoon in the fifth century: silt from the rivers of Italy filled up the shallow waters surrounding Torcello, making it difficult for ships to navigate the shallow waters and increasing the incidence of malaria.

As trade decreased and disease became more widespread, many of Torcello’s 20,000 natives left in search of better work prospects and healthier living environs on Venice, located about six miles away from Torcello. As Venice slowly transformed in to a commercial and military hub, Torcello’s importance dimmed proportionately.

This fact would later be confirmed by a lady selling souvenirs at the island’s only piazza. As she wrapped up purchases of lace umbrellas made in Burano and postcards for tourists, she revealed that only about 15 of the approximate 100 persons currently working on Torcello are natives who still live on the island.

Looking at the number of visitors that were present this day on Torcello, I realised that this was a small fraction of the thousands of visitors who pass through Venice, Murano and Burano daily. Retirees and families with children make up the tourists while visitor numbers are aided by Italian students on school trips.

Unlike its more famous neighbours Torcello has little to offer for the souvenir hunter. Venice impresses with its romantic history and the glistening Saint Mark’s Basilica; Burano attracts the eye with buildings awash in bright colours and tempts the wallet with a variety of products made of lace, and Murano has exquisite handcrafted glass.

However, all Torcello has to offer are two ancient stone churches, a stone throne, and an expansive flat green land.

Tourists are not the only ones who give the island a pass – even locals bringing friends around the Venetian lagoon largely give Torcello a miss, leading to even less attention accorded to the island.

Luckily for us, an Italian couple, who are friends of my husband, wanted their toddler son to get a taste of what it felt like to sit on the stone throne of Torcello.

As we made our way along the only main street leading from the boat mooring to the piazza, we passed by some quaint yet cosy restaurants, private residences, and a collection of stalls selling souvenirs as well as lace umbrellas displayed along the street.

I wonder if Ernest Hemingway strolled down this same route when he spent time here while recovering from an illness, and what were the sights he saw then that inspired him to pen his novel, Across the River and Into the Trees.

Within 10 minutes of strolling, we reached the lone stone throne in the piazza, shaded by the canopy of a lone tree next to it. Called The Throne of Attila by the locals, it is fabled that Attila the Hun built it on Torcello as a mark of his kingdom as he could not establish a proper castle anywhere. Yet it is often overlooked in brochures or guides for tourists.

Little Nicolo is immediately taken by the stately air of the throne, and promptly seats himself on it. No amount of cajoling could entice the three-year-old to surrender the throne, until the adults started walking away toward another attraction.

I giggled at the thought that the little boy would get married within the year, as local legend says would happen to anyone who sat on The Throne of Attila.

My attention is immediately drawn to the red brick wall we had arrived at, standing about 10 meters from the stone throne.

On it was a collection of archaeological items displayed like paintings in an art gallery. Some looked like representations of family crests while others looked like embellishments of buildings or bridges that fell off through the years.

Although they looked old, these archaeological items were not the only ancient attractions on the island. Across the piazza and round the corner from the wall is the oldest church, not only on the island, but also in the Veneto region.

The Cathedral of the Virgin Mary was built in the year 639 and dedicated to Saint Maria Assunta.

However, it was closed by the time we arrived at its entrance, thus we missed the opportunity of admiring the colourful mosaics on its walls and floors, the Byzantine wood beams separating its brick archways, and to ascend its bell tower for a panoramic view of the island and the Venetian lagoon.

The adjacent Church of Santa Fosca was open though, and we entered to be greeted by brick arches and a wooden domed ceiling over a spacious interior.

From its octagonal shape and three apses, my husband surmised that it might have been used to store boats or ships at a certain point, especially during times of war.

While this remains speculation on his part, it is certain that this church was built in the 11th century to house the remains of Saint Fosca, and is as elegant as it is serene.

After admiring its beauty and saying some prayers, we exited the church to find the earlier group of students resting on the grass of the piazza, enjoying quiet conversations while soaking in some of the evening sun. Despite their number and chatter, there was an air of tranquillity on the island.

It was time for dinner, and while Torcello offered several welcoming and cosy eateries, our friends had a surprise in store: the boat was steered to another island in the lagoon.

Isola delle Vignole (Island of Vignole), formerly called Biniola or ‘seven vineyards’, is an island that retains a strong military presence from its past but is today is used for agriculture.

However like us, visitors to Vignole usually come for the food served at its only eatery, the Trattoria Alle Vignole.

For about a hundred years, it has been serving out a selection of pizzas, pastas, and fried seafood fished fresh from the lagoon. We chose a bit of everything and settled in to tables sheltered by tall trees for some homemade Italian dishes and a few carafes of delicate Italian wine.

Groups of friends and teenagers as well as couples with dogs and families had also made the journey by boat to have dinner here.

The sun began to set, signalling the time for our return to the mainland. We boarded the boat and sped away with lingering memories of the peaceful yet enriching day we spent.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Patricea Chow-Capodieci who lives in Singapore. Check her website at www.pizzazz-words.com

Photos by Patricea Chow-Capodieci:
1: Taking a rest in the main piazza of Torcello.
2: Sit on the Throne of Attila and be King for the moment.
3: A display wall of archeological items.

More information:
The Cathedral of the Virgin Mary and the Church of Santa Fosca are open from 10.30am to 5.30pm daily in March to October, and from 10am to 5pm daily in November to February. It is free to enter the latter but costs 3 Euros to enter the former.

To reach Torcello, first take ACTV waterbus LN from the Fondamente Nuove stop or Pietà stop on Venice to Burano, then transfer on to ACTV waterbus T from Burano to Torcello. It costs 6 Euros each way, and takes approximately 55 minutes each way.

To reach Isola delle Vignole, take ACTV waterbus number 13 from Venice. Trattoria Alle Vignole is closed on Mondays.

If you wish to visit both Torcello and Isola dell Vignole on the same day, opt for a full-day ACTV waterbus ticket that costs 15 Euros for unlimited rides in 24 hours.

For twelve wonderful days, the newly inaugurated Carnival Freedom drops us at alluring Mediterranean ports steeped in glorious times past…and docking at Katakolon, Greece is no different.

This sleepy seaside town of 600 residents overlooks the silvery Ionian Sea; her crystal- blue waters sorely tempt us, begging my hubby and I to dilly-dally along white sugar-sand beaches.

Tiny shops brimming with robust red wines, pungent cheeses, gourmet salad spices and golden olive oils lure others…but, the home of the first Olympic games waits, just thirty minutes out of town. Nowadays, travelers like us flock there by the thousands…following in the steps of ancient Greeks who’d journeyed from far and wide every four years.

Setting the scene for our personal pilgrimage, we browse in the Archaeological Museum, a marvelous treasury of archaic sculptures and friezes uncovered at the site, including the renowned barefoot goddess Nike: ‘Winged Victory.’ Although she is without arms or wings, we appreciate her immense grace and inspiration for athletes.

Then, along with fellow Olympic wannabees, we gather around Astra who guides us through the classical site, explaining, “The Alpheus River still runs through Olympia, which lies in this lovely valley in the western Peloponnesus.”

Shaded today by spreading dusty-green olive trees and Judas trees bursting with delicate pink blossoms, this momentous spot is lush and luxuriant, unlike other archeological sites we’ve visited. Though excavated during the mid-19th-century, this beautiful sanctuary has never been ransacked.

She continues, “In antiquity, Olympia wasn’t a town, but a sacred Sanctuary of Zeus…which doubled as the location for early athletic competitions.

As a deified shrine of elaborate temples, priests’ dwellings and public buildings, Olympia enclosed many Greek art treasures: monuments, altars, theaters, statues and offerings of brass and marble…including a row of 12 treasure houses.

And dedicated to the powerful Macedonian dynasty, the magnificent circular Philippeum was begun by Philip II, King of Macedonia but completed by Alexander the Great. The Leonidaion guesthouse provided lavish accommodations for important foreign guests and officials during their visits.”

Olympia spreads along the foot of the Hill of Kronos. Weaving in some mythology, the guide explains how Zeus fought and killed Kronos the God of Time, entombing him in this little hill. “It’s just possible that the games first began with people paying their respects at the tomb of Kronos,” she twinkled. I wonder…

Dedicated to Zeus and open to all male Greeks, the first games were officially held in 776 BC. Women were not allowed to enter this sanctuary either as participants or spectators until much later. Those trying to sneak in were thrown from a nearby rock.

During this five-day contest, enemy city-states were bound by a hallowed truce; peace reigned. Instead of war, athletes battled in sport: wrestling; chariot and horse racing; pentathlon, (wrestling, discus, javelin, long jump and running)…and pancratium, a fierce form of boxing.

At that time, splendid crowns of wild olive branches were enough to immortalize victors, families and cities for decades…unlike today, where winners expect lucrative endorsements…

Throughout the celebrations, writers, poets and historians recited their works to large audiences while leaders resolved differences through discussion…and merchants profited greatly. “Maybe our modern Games are similar after all,” I chuckle…

Although little remains of her magnificent buildings, marble ruins over 2000-years-old still inspire awe.

The massive brick workshop where Athenian sculptor Pheidias built his masterpiece still stands, identified by discovery of tools and terra-cotta molds. His Temple of Zeus had been most celebrated as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: his gargantuan ivory-and-gold statue of Zeus, a scepter in his left hand, winged Nike in his right, sat upon a carved ebony-and-ivory throne atop a pedestal 20 meters high.

Dedicated to Hera, wife of Zeus, the Heraeum was positioned next door. The large, richly ornamented building originally made of wood contained an inner cella that enclosed the huge sculpted figures of Hera and Zeus, the deities.

The sought-after garlands prepared for victors had awaited presentation on a marble table in this temple; a fire burned throughout these celebrations, reminiscent of the fire stolen from the gods by Prometheus.

That iconic flame has been a part of the modern games since 1928. Dressed as priestesses, eleven women in flowing white gowns kindle the Olympic torch here at Hera’s temple, the sun’s rays concentrated by parabolic mirrors.

And since 2004, the sacred lit torch has been relayed throughout the world, burning in the host city until the closing ceremonies officially concludes events…

Parading through the tunnel-like entrance to the Olympic stadium sparked great excitement as we spill eagerly onto the field dating back to the 5th-century BC. Here, the start and finish lines of the original sprint track survive. On the stadium’s southern slope there had been a stone platform for the judges and opposite, an altar to Demeter.

Ragged lines of proper athletic types, as well as groups of puffing others like my hubby, time themselves racing across the 120-meter distance. The rest of us clap and hoot enthusiastically.

Then, this stadium had seated up to 45,000 wildly cheering spectators rooting for god-like participants at the peak of physical prowess, their bodies sleek with oils. Fortunately for us, or maybe unfortunately, nobody this day mimics the nude athleticism of ancient Olympia …

As we leave this revealing archeological site, Astra observes, “Eventually, the Romans moved into Olympia…and in the first century AD Nero, the most infamous Emperor of them all, had a luxurious villa built here…”

Nowadays, expense and controversy seriously obscure the historic spirit of the Olympic games. But after daytripping to where it all began, we see that much existing in modern games is rooted in the days of antiquity, centuries ago at Olympia.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance writer Chris Millikan who lives in North Delta, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C. on Canada’s West Coast.

About the photos:
1: In the Spring, pink blossomed Judas trees shade much of ancient Olympia.
2: The Temple of Zeus once housed one the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
3: Olympia’s stadium running track once held 45,000 spectators.

If You Go:
Carnival Cruise Ship Freedom provides both admirable accommodations and comfortable transport to this isolated southern point of the Peloponnesian Peninsula. To review its complete itinerary, contact: www.carnival.com