By Michael Yaeger

We were heading south to escape the cold of the central European winter and to bask in the rich Mediterranean sun.  Our two month long journey during the mid-February semester break began in Southern Germany, and wound it’s way slowly through the Czech Republic, Hungary, Bulgaria, Serbia and then a final long haul train down to the port of Istanbul, the European gateway to Asia.  After weeks of traveling in snow and cold, visions of warm clear days in  framed by the turquoise waters of the Bosporus Strait sounded pretty good.

Arriving in the afternoon, we immediately noticed that our intentions of basking in the sunshine might have been thwarted, as not only was it cold in the city, but it was uncharacteristically snowing.  Glumly, we set out to find one of the backpacker hotels recommended by our guide book, and after working our way further into the labyrinth streets of Istanbul, we finally found the place we were looking for.  We were shown upstairs to a bedroom with eight single beds aligned.  The price was right, so we decided to stay and were oddly (at the time it seemed odd) given six or seven large wool blankets for our bedding.

To orient ourselves, we began our explorations at the massive complex of impressive structures in the Sultanahmet district, the heart of the old city.  Sprawling parks dotted with fountains and lawns connected beautiful mosques like the Ayasofya (Hagia Sofia) and the Blue Mosque, as well as historical buildings and museums. We had planned to explore on our own avoiding guided tours and the like, but after ignoring a number of offers from touts, we were approached by a middle aged man who pursued us in an impressive variety of languages including Russian and some form of Scandinavian.  For reasons that have been lost to me over time, we decided to finally engage Ahmed, representing ourselves as Germans instead of Americans.  We were studying in Germany at the time, and it seemed like we would garner more enthusiasm from the Turks than a couple of Americans might.  Ahmed had lived in Germany for many years it turned out, and we made arrangements to meet him the next day for a personal and intimate tour of the city.

That night we discovered why we needed so many blankets for our beds….there was no heat!  Istanbul is generally very mild to hot, so most cheap hotels and homes didn’t have heat.  We slept that night with many layers of clothing and still were miserably cold the entire time.  The next day, we upgraded to another youth hostel that offered little space heaters for about an extra dollar per night.  Running on empty from a sleepless night, we met Ahmed back at the Sultanahmet district and began our behind the scenes tour of the city, and behind the scenes it was.

Aside from visiting the aforementioned mosques, which were magnificently adorned in rich wall to wall mosaics and tiles, we rambled through the city down passageways no tourist would ever find, or more to the point find their way back out of.  Small steep alleyways crisscrossed the sprawl of Istanbul, affording wonderful views of the crystal blue strait below and glimpses of the cobbled together houses that the common people lived in.  As we got further out from the center, it took on the look and feel of shanty towns, with structures made from whatever people could find, barely able to withstand the mild weather, and certainly offering no running water or electricity.    We visited a traditional tea house, beautifully tiled and peaceful, where old men sipped the strong sweet nectar that is Turkish tea and played dominoes.  We visited small pastry shops that offered sticky treats all based on puff pastry and flavored with pistachio, honey and rosewater.  Minarets could be seen everywhere and the haunting and mesmerizing call to prayer that rolled through the city from these towers blended with the sights and smells to create an exotic and truly intoxicating experience.  The day with Ahmed turned out to be one of my most lasting memories of the entire trip.

However, no visit to Istanbul can be complete without a visit to the expansive bazaar, a large area of narrow streets lined with vendors of all shapes and sizes selling pretty much anything you could think of.  Passageways were clogged with people, animals and cars, all trying to make their way from here to there.  Boisterous and endless shopkeepers offered their wares to anyone passing by.  If you saw something you liked, you had better buy it then, because you’d never find that particular stall again, as I quickly found out.  Haggling was expected and required with many beautiful items worthy of purchasing, especially rugs, pottery, spices and antiques.  Leaving the bizarre was as challenging as navigating through it, as you get so turned around that you’re not sure where you are when you leave.  But the chaotic nature of the bazaar is what makes it so wonderful…you can go back many times and never have the same experience twice.

To this day, I still consider that first trip to Istanbul as one of my most cherished travel adventures, despite the weather.  We were young and free, with no time limit, and this city on the doorstep of the greater Middle East oozed sensuality from its pores, putting a spell on me that was not soon forgotten.

By Michael Yaeger

St. Valentine’s Day is noted for roses, but the holiday always reminds me that my wife’s favorite flower is actually the tulip, something that can be hard to come by in a snowy February in Vermont.  Planted before the first frost of autumn, they’re quickly forgotten about until they emerge unexpectedly in the sunny warmth of spring.  The red, yellow, purple, pink and white heads on single smooth green stalks begin to frame gardens and walkways around the country, reflecting our fascination with this simple and elegant flower from Holland.  As a belated gift last spring, I took my wife to one of my favorite Canadian cities, Ottawa, which just happens to host an annual Tulip festival that showcases both the city and this wonderful flower.

This quaint capital city reflects both the English speaking majority and the French speaking Québécois minority, divided by the Ottawa River separating the provinces of Ontario and Quebec.   Punctuated by beautiful parks, stunning architecture, scenic river overlooks, and lively outdoor markets and cafes, Ottawa is relatively small and often overlooked, lying midway between the larger cities of Toronto and Montreal.  While winter might be a challenge here, since it’s considered one the coldest capital cities in the world (with an average temperature of 41.9 degrees Fahrenheit), the spring and summer months are fantastic, perhaps made more so by the contrast.

The Canadian Tulip Festival began in 1953, several years after Princess Juliana of the Netherlands gave Ottawa 100,000 tulip bulbs to show appreciation for the city’s harboring of Holland’s exiled royal family during World War II.  The eighteen day extravaganza each May has become the largest Tulip festival in the world, hosting hundreds of thousands of tourists viewing millions of tulips spread throughout the city.  Many of the events are free, or can be accessed with an inexpensive pass including transportation between the venues on the “Tulip shuttle”.  The event has grown in scope, and features musical concerts, competitions, and a formal Tulip ball including beautiful dresses made from flowers.  Visiting in the beginning of the festival can be risky since the weather determines when the tulips bloom en masse, but the crowds increase as the weather gets warmer, so going early can often be a risk worth taking.  Make sure to take in the lower key display at Commissioner’s Park, set in a beautiful suburb surrounding Dow’s Lake.

Unless you’re a horticulturist however, the amazing variety of colors and styles of tulips mostly provide a stunning backdrop to experience the rest of the things this city has to offer.   The downtown area is about four square blocks and centered on the ByWard Market, featuring lots of indoor and outdoor vendors selling their wares, from crepes to cheese to hot sauces and pretty much else anything you can imagine.  It’s surrounded by specialty shops, boutiques, cafés and restaurants, and cute little cobblestone alleys where you can sit and watch the world go by.

For people watching and an interesting menu, I especially recommend the Fox And Feather Pub, tucked down a picturesque pedestrian street.  On a hot day, they had a refreshing melon bisque special, Leffe beer on tap, and they even welcomed our overheated canine companion providing ice water and lots of attention.  There are plenty of other bars and clubs around which create a relatively subdued but fun nightlife.  For those fans of Douglas Adams, one that sticks out is a club called Zaphod Beeblebrox that is known for live music and festive young crowds.

Despite the small area, downtown Ottawa (called Centretown) also reflects the melting pot of cultures with a variety of restaurants from high end cuisine to hip vegetarian joints, and choosing one may be a challenge.  One of our favorite places we always go back to the Calendario Azteca restaurant, a very authentic journey through the cuisine of Mexico, including the rare Huitlacoche, a mushroom that grows on the corn cob, spiced and served in a crepe.  There is also a Little Italy (and it’s really little), and we had a wonderful meal at Trattoria Café Italia which offers a large menu of traditional items including a number of vegetarian options.  You can also snack your way through the market, and if you’re not from the area, don’t miss the bagels made Montreal style at Continental Bagel.

Besides being the provincial capital of Ontario, Ottawa serves as the national capital, and it has the official and parliamentary buildings to prove it.  Most of them border Major’s Hill Park along the western bank of the Ottawa River, and they’re joined by cultural landmarks like the National Arts Centre, National Gallery, the Mint, and a War Memorial.  Take a scenic walk across the Alexandra Bridge into Quebec and visit the Canadian Museum of Civilization in the Hull area, which includes an IMAX theatre.  While this side of the city doesn’t have a lot of restaurants, there are a number of nice patisseries and coffee shops.  The best place to stay if you can swing it is the Fairmont Chateau Laurier, which looks like a castle, and sits right on the river along with the other buildings on Parliament Hill, making it the perfect location to walk anywhere.

In all, Ottawa provides a compact, scenic and multicultural experience easily explored in a long weekend.  Make it extra special by visiting in spring during the annual Tulip Festival, sure to impress the one you love.

Michael Yaeger is the senior editor of TravelsInParadise.com and lives in Barre, Vermont. He can be contacted at mike@travelsinparadise.com

By Michael Yaeger

When my friend suggested that our next biannual trip be Egypt, I have to admit I wasn’t overly excited at the idea.  I mean, I love the food and the ancient and exotic cultures of the Middle East, but I also had visions of swarms of tourists driving past the Sphinx in their air conditioned buses.  To mitigate the imagined crowds, we chose to go in March, after the high season ends, and our plan worked beautifully.  I found Cairo to be very calm and relaxing, sort of like life is a warm summer day over and over, its people stoic but shy, and aside from the truly famous things like the Pyramids at Giza, we encountered very few tourists.

We stayed in the Ezbekieh quarter of the city, about twenty miles east of the Nile and the tourist strip, close to the peaceful Ezbekieh Gardens, Opera House, Central Railway Station, and downtown commercial drag.   Walking around the immediate hotel area was extremely pleasant, with a marked absence of touts, a plethora of coffee houses (ahwe), and local places to eat.  The coffee houses are filled with men at outdoor sidewalk tables, enjoying sheesha (waterpipes), shai ala bosta (tea) and a game of dominoes, watching football (Champion’s League was going on) or just talking.  Women are rarely seen in the coffee house, but otherwise are plentiful on the streets, some wearing the hijab and some not.

The sheesha are hookahs with water in the base, flavored hot coals in a metal bowl on top, and multiple hoses for patrons to draw on.  Packaged plastic tips for the hoses are provided, and properly done, smoke is inhaled and blown out the nose slowly.  The hot coals are infused with traditional or apple flavored tobacco in a special cooker, and stoking the hot coals is a serious art.  The tea is sweet and refreshing, but make sure you ask for shai ala bosta, as otherwise, you are apt to be given a lipton tea bag instead of the wonderful black tea served with granulated sugar and a sprig of fresh mint (nana) that really enhances the experience.

From the street carts to the communal restaurants, the food was wonderful.  Alcohol was not served anywhere, except one tourist restaurant we ended up at.  There was actually a liquor store around the corner from our hotel, but buying beer and smuggling it back to our hotel felt oddly inappropriate here.  Primarily we either had kebab of some kind from street vendors, or one of our favorite experiences was at a typical restaurant near our hotel, where they didn’t produce any food, but rather, provided a menu of all kinds of things, which a runner then went and got from one of the street vendors.  We had some of the best falafel (tammiyya) that I ever had, made right next door on a large round griddle, as well as several staples like tahini and baba ganouj.   English was very rarely spoken, and often the menus were in script anyways, so eating was a challenging but rewarding experience, and fantastic for a vegetarian.

The Khan el-Khalili is a very large market in Old Cairo, with miles of vendors selling everything from rugs and spices to household wares on narrow unpaved streets clogged with throngs of people.  Haggling is the norm, but most things are very cheap by Western standards.  Near the market is the beautiful Al-Azhar Mosque.  The walls and chambers were Spartan or adorned with beautiful tile work and rugs, but far less pretentious than their Western church counterparts.  Behind the mosque was a neighborhood of small streets, too small for cars, and as we got progressively further in, there was a feeling of danger confirmed by several people who basically told us to go back, which we did.  Whether this was just a dangerous part of town like all cities have, or a seat of fundamentalism (and hatred of the West) was unclear, but it was the only time we felt nervous in Egypt.

As we found everywhere in Egypt, our interaction with the locals was limited, both by language and possibly our status as infidels.  Aside from a few friendly conversations, most of our contact was with aggressive or deceptive hawkers.  One of the joys in traveling is meeting people from other cultures and spending time learning from each other, and we are conditioned to expect that when someone is friendly and starts up a conversation, that it is genuine without ulterior motive.  In Cairo this was really not the case.  Over and over, we had pleasant conversations with people including those our own age, that blatantly or subtly, always (I really mean always) ended at someone’s shop being shown wares and expected to buy them.

Of course, one can’t avoid the tourist things completely in Cairo, and despite the crowds and touts, we had to go to see the Pyramids at Giza.  Take the subway to Giza, and then take a taxi from the subway to the Pyramids complex.  While majestic, the pyramids are unfortunately empty shells at this point, with all of the artifacts long ago shipped off to a museum in London or Cairo.   Expensive tours of the inside of the structures are available, but offer little beyond saying you’ve done it.  Guards surround the structures to prevent further degradation, but they supplement their income by accepting bribes, so a little baksheesh and you can do anything short of using a hammer and chisel.  Hordes of tour buses filled the parking lot providing plenty of reason for the hawkers to descend on the area like locusts.

The other big tourist area is near the Egyptian museum along the Nile, where the area is actually barricaded off and only foreigners and those serving them are allowed.  Here one finds the trappings of the West with the Hilton, Hard Rock Café, TGIF and a multitude of other global chains.  One reason to go there though, is to ride in a felukka, a traditional sail boat still used to travel the Nile River.  Going out for about an hour at sunset is a stunning experience, gliding past the shores of this ancient river where so many others have gone before.  It’s a perfect ending to a trip into the fascinating and historic past that is the Egyptian capital of Cairo.

By Stacey Bloomfield

On weekdays this square of concrete fills and empties with the regular intervals of the school bell, as one group of junior high students is traded for another. They mill around during recess and stand uncomfortable in their shorts for games of kickball and handball during gym class. It’s a space every city kid has inhabited, an urban field of tan and black, faded paint lines of a baseball diamond or four square court. This particular yard is only blocks away from New York’s Central Park, the only color here are the taxis passing by. But early Sunday morning a transformation happens in this spot, and in many other school yards across the country. Folding tables are unpacked, hand-made and vintage wears are laid out, stacks of apple crates driven that morning from the Catskills are taken from trucks. By ten the once empty school yard has become a vibrant flea market, as it has been for twenty-two years.

Markets and Bazaars can be found all over the world, in many towns they are the main source of commerce, but here in the United States where you can find what ever you want at big box stores 24 hours a day, the flea market fills a different need.  People come not out of a need for a particular thing but for the joy of the search.  You may leave with a few things in your bag, but you bring away from it a sense of connection, a return to our collective past.  Where else can you sift through bins of buttons to find a matching one to your grandmother’s sweater that has hung in your closet for a decade unworn, and two minutes later watch a woman expertly twist lengths of silver into a pendant while she talks to the four people who are looking at her booth?

As a teenager I would come to this market to escape back in time as I browsed the old magazine ads from the twenties and thirties and to watch the people. I can still capture that feeling when I enter the cafeteria where more tables stand, and the room smells of old paper and school lunches. Some of the same vendors are here as when I was young. New ones have joined them filling spaces left by vendors who have died or moved on, becoming equally as timeless no matter what they are selling or how old they are. As I finger costume jewelry and dressing table mirrors a young orthodox guy haggles with the coin dealer and a Korean mother and daughter browse the movie paraphernalia. The room is full of conversations but they are buffered by the tiles leaving me to drift into the past.

Each row at the market is filled with tables and booths, discount underwear next to African tapestries, rare coins beside personalized ‘while you wait’ dog food bowls. The goods that are sold are not staples but the market itself is a step aside from our usual life. Here people slow down and browse. We start conversations with strangers over old tea pots and yards of ribbon. Old women with shopping carts and teenage girls both look at the same sweaters hung on wheeled racks. Being here I want to create the stories for the people around me, give them lives. Maybe it’s a sweater the old woman wore when she was young and still traveled in packs, as the girls who dance around her do.

At another flea market in a rural area I find myself on my knees digging through a damp box of old metal tins. This market is in the middle of a strawberry farm. On either side of the market area are acres of berries waiting to be picked. My son has wandered away from me and is exploring a pile of stuffed animals that is taller than him. By the time I have caught up to him he is running towards a couple of girls who are selling zucchini. The wares at this market couldn’t be more different. The people here are as well, but there is still the same feeling, of people searching for something, not an object exactly. We find a pair of pajamas for him and a few tins for me, oh no we’ve spent three bucks.

As we walk through the field to our car we are stopped by an older gentleman with dark blue jeans and a tractor cap. He is one of those people who looks as though they are busting at the seams of their skin, his face is rosy and he is smiling. “I remember taking my son with me when he was that age. Now,” he points to a man and small boy in matching blue sweatshirts, “All three of us come.”

I drive away from the flea market excited for the next one I will find because they have become part of how I explore new places. They aren’t far away but sometimes it feels like I’ve taken a little trip when I’m there.

Stacey Bloomfield is a staff writer for TravelsInParadise.com and lives in Bennington, Vermont. She can be contacted at stacey@madscientistpublishing.com

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By Michael Yaeger

In the early afternoon heat, after experiencing the local Sunday tangui (market) in Tlocalula, we were bouncing along in the back of a flat bed truck ever higher into the mountains.  The back and sides of the platform, shared with six indigena women and a bushel of some type of flower, were open or barely covered, causing the increasingly cooler, wetter air to chill us into putting on our fleece jackets.  Finally above tree line, the desert scrub gave way to green forests, our height reinforced by the family of turkey vultures circling and diving over the steep mountain slopes alongside the road.  Out of nowhere appeared the small town of Cuajimoloyas, it’s grouping of houses and businesses scattered up and down a grid of very steep streets.  The truck stopped and we stepped off to begin our two day trip into the Sierra Juárez mountains northeast of Oaxaca, Mexico, also called the Sierra Norte.

Our adventure began the day before at the offices of Expediciones de Sierra Norte in the capital city, where we decided on a day of hiking and day of horseback riding between Cuajimoloyas, Latuvi and Lachatao, three of the villages participating in the cooperative Pueblos Mancomunados run by the a group of non-governmental organizations.  The office provides tourists and locals with information and arrangements to explore 100 kilometers of trails connecting eight mountain towns by foot, bike or horse, eating local food and staying along the way in “rustic” cabañas.  The office collects a small fee (10USD) for their services, and writes up an itinerary with costs to be paid along the way to the individual towns.  These services provide important revenue for the towns and promote responsibility and protection of the forest land.

In Cuajimoloyas, the cabañas are literally at the highest point in the village, looking out over what would be a great view if the town wasn’t obscured by clouds.  They have electricity, hot water, were very clean, well built and maintained, which would be true for all of the cabañas we stayed in.  A quick walk down to the only open comedor yielded a hearty dinner of chile rellenos, chicken in a chipotle sauce and wonderful salsa and tortillas prepared by two women in a small kitchen attached to the dining room.  By the time we got back, a fire was raging in our room with more wood stacked for the night.

After breakfast at the other comedor in town (and the best coffee and hot chocolate of the trip), we met Evencio, our guide, back at the cabaña around 10am for the start of our first day’s hike.  The conversation was lively as we hiked down a wide dirt track past giant cactus, bulls and burros, occasionally passing farmers working their land, all the time descending out of the clouds.  The track eventually became smaller and we found ourselves in the eerie mist, on a rock pinnacle surrounded by trees covered with hanging moss. This was the halfway point where we met up with Javier, our guide the rest of the way to Latuvi.

We quickly made our way down steep hills till we reached a stream with a trout farm, perfect for a meal or a quick rest.  The climate was much warmer here and the pastoral country setting was relaxingly idyllic.  After having a cerveza with our guide, we finished the primarily downhill hike with two exhausting kilometers up a steep road, cresting at the tiny town of Latuvi and the welcoming promise of a hot shower and rest.  Latuvi’s center was at the top of the hill, with a small school, municipal building, a couple comedores, and the dramatically perched cabañas, with a panoramic view of the valley below.  The hillsides tumbled down from here, dotted with small houses and farms, all seemingly basic structures juxtaposed by electric wires running across rooftops and clusters of satellite dishes.

Life in these villages is much slower and less rigid than in the city.  Time is largely irrelevant as people go about their daily lives, going to school, working the fields, or providing the limited services available, guided by a natural pace more than the exact hour.  Often, while looking to pay for the cabaña or meet the next guide, we were told “mas tarde“, a phrase that literally means “later”, but more loosely translated, meant “sometime in the future, someone might be along and will probably come find you”.  There is literally nothing to do in these villages for tourists but to unwind and soak in the sun and slow pace.

The next morning, our guide Miguel appeared at the cabaña with two small horses named Fito and Guerra.   We mounted and with Miguel leading the way on foot, proceeded down the cobblestone main street, veering off onto a narrow dirt track that wound its way down steep switchbacks till we reached the bottom of the valley.  The path follows an ancient Zapotec trail along the small river for seven or eight kilometers past small subsistence farms, dry brown, yellow, and light green grass and scrub, that reminded me so much of Northern California in late Summer, it was easy to understand Mexico’s historical attraction to the state that used to be theirs.  The horses struggled up and down rocky trails, carefully choosing their steps to avoid plunging down the hillside.  After four hours, we ambled into Lachatao, and were instantly smitten with the sleepy hamlet.

Santa Catarina de Lachatao feels bigger but quieter than the other towns, centered around an old stone church that provides a sense of colonial times.  Our cabaña had a balcony overlooking the church and from here we watched the hours tick by, seeing nothing but the occasional dog, or student learning their lessons in one of the church’s outer alcoves.  One of the highlights of the trip was a dinner we had at Restaurant Los Pinos, a one table affair in the kitchen of the owner Sylvia, whose house sits on a farm with a greenhouse, where she grows all of her ingredients naturally.  We had excellent tasajo (thin skirt steak grilled straight over the burner flame), an excellent nopalito (cactus) salad, and the ever present frijoles (black beans), salsa and tortillas.  While the food was fresh and wonderful, the best part of the meal was the conversation, as other members of the family came and went, greeting and engaging us warmly.  By the end, we felt in some strange way that we knew these people, had been part of their lives in some small way.

The bus to Oaxaca left early the next morning from the square in front of our cabaña, and we had not yet paid.  The teenager who we were supposed to pay had taken “mas tarde” to the extreme, and never come back.  We left the cash in the room and boarded the brand new Mercedes mini bus.  As it wound its way down the narrow switchbacks, more and more passengers got on until it was standing room only.  Kids in school uniforms, university students with laptops, old women with goods to sell at the market and families heading to larger towns for services or work.  Provided as a free service to the people of Lachatao, the bus is a visible example of the direct impact tourist dollars make to the people of the eight towns participating in the decade old ecotourism project.  Visiting the towns of the Sierra Norte gave us a glimpse of modern day rural Oaxaca, an introspective and unique journey that will hold a special place in our memories.

By Devorah Klein

In ancient times, two powerful volcanoes of the Central Anatolian Plateau frequently erupted, causing their lava to gush across the surrounding land over millions of years. Hasan Dagi and Erciyes Dagi now mark the east and west boundaries of Cappadocia, a region famous for its distinct volcanic landscape, whose soft rock has been continuously hewn by nature and the people who have lived there.

Landing in Kayseri Airport at about 7 a.m., my two companions and I had left Istanbul about two hours earlier and we were tired, but we only had one day in the Cappadocia region and we were determined to make it count. So what can you do in one day in Cappadocia? A lot!

After landing at Kayseri Airport and taking the shuttle provided by our hotel, we arrived at the Kismet Cave Hotel, and were warmly welcomed with tea and a delicious breakfast. Most of the hotels in the region are “cave hotels” which means that they are carved into the stone and provide a unique experience.

It can get very hot or cold depending on the season, and we did lose electricity for a few hours at one point, but it was all part of the adventure. Despite the slight feeling of roughing it, the beds were very comfortable and the bathroom very luxurious.

After cleaning up and eating we were finally ready to start our day at about 9 a.m. We quickly decided to rent a car from one of the many vehicle rental places so we could cover a lot of ground. Had it not been cold with the possibility of rain, we surely would have rented scooters, which would have been the perfect way to see the countryside.

Once we were armed with maps and gas, we were on our way, driving the roads out of Goreme and toward Nevsehir. The surrounding landscape featured tall rocks formed into cones with caps on top that had doors and windows carved into them, hundreds of nooks carved into mountain sides to create kind of rocky villages, and rolling hills made out of stone, all in the shadow of the giant snow-capped mountain Hasan Dagi that loomed in the distance.

We soon learned the capped cones were called “fairy chimneys,” which is actually a perfectly apt name for them. They looked magical and other-worldly and there thousands of them. Fairy chimneys are formed when a small cap or boulder of basalt (volcanic rock) remains after erosion and protects a cone of tuff (consolidated volcanic ash) beneath it from continued erosion. Many people used to live in them, hence the windows and doors, and some people still do, as we noticed gardens outside and curtains in the windows.

We finally made our way to one of the area’s numerous underground cities. Derinkuyu. Derinkuyu was probably used as temporary shelter by Christians being persecuted by various groups during various times. It has eight stories open to the public, but there may be as many as twelve. The dozens of narrow passages and numerous flights of stairs make it hard to figure out where you are, but it is easy to make out certain rooms, wells, and ventilation shafts.

Outside of Derinkuyu was perhaps one of my favorite things we had seen so far: A row of friendly Turkish women selling handmade dolls for what amounted to pennies. They hardly spoke English and they were all very conservative and modest, as is common in this area of rural countryside. We were so enamored with the dolls and the women who made them that we felt compelled to buy some from each vendor—and they made great souvenirs for our friends and family when we came home!

Next we drove through Pigeon Valley, a gorgeous valley that has thousands of pigeon houses carved into the soft tuff. It is a beautiful sight to see and you can do some nice hikes in it, but if you only have one day, move on to…

…Uchisar. Uchisar is a small town that has an enormous castle carved into a small mountain in the center. You can climb up it and when you get to the top you will have a beautiful view of the entire region. This is an excellent alternative to taking a hot air balloon ride, which is a very popular activity in Cappadocia, but also very time consuming and expensive.

After stopping in a nice nargilah (water pipe) café for some delicious mezze and refreshing tea—and a quick smoke of the nargilah—we continued on our adventure. Cappadocia is an area that is meant to be explored, and the best way to see it is by simply wandering into abandoned fairy chimneys or caves, climbing up hills and hiking through valleys. We saw some beautiful rock formations, amazing mountain views, and fascinating abandoned caves, and because the countryside is so relaxed we never felt the need to rush.

Of course, if you have more than twenty-four hours, there is a lot more to see, including the dozens of rock cut churches and monasteries, the wetland and reed forest areas, the Ihlara Valley, and closer explorations of Hasan Dagi and Erciyes Dagi. Just the sight from the airplane alone is enough to inspire beauty and wonder in anyone’s heart.

By Erin Nelsen

Standing in the Sicilian sun with your feet washed by the waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea, it’s easy to forget that there’s more to the tri-corner island than beauty. The beaches are magnificent—turquoise waters stretching out to the horizon, soft sand, gentle waves and some of the clearest water in the world. In the distance, on the rockier portions of the coast, volcanic rock juts out of the sea, its dark color and jagged edge adding drama to the vista.

Inland, the hills rise up and greet the sun, patched with golden fields of grain, vibrant citrus orchards, and the vineyards that produce Sicily’s fragrant nero d’avola wines. The skies are blue, the weather is warm, and somewhere, a few steps down a narrow street, someone is rolling fresh pasta to tempt you back from the shore.

There’s no mistaking Sicily for part of mainland Italy. Though Sicily has been officially part of Italy for nearly 150 years, it has also been ruled in turn by Greeks, Romans, Arabs, and Normans, and the island has kept the flavors of each passing wave of conquerors. Only a few blocks beyond the monuments to Vittorio Emanuele II outside the train station in Palermo are palaces and churches with the domes, mosaics, and geometric loveliness of medieval Arab architecture.

Baroque details line graceful, decaying buildings that shade sprawling markets and tanned children playing soccer in the streets. Most visitors come to Sicily for the weather: the climate is warm year-round, and in the summer months the sunshine is constant and temperatures hover around 86 degrees Fahrenheit. But in Sicily, history, culture, and natural wonders are layered on so thick that the trouble is in choosing the adventure, not finding it.

One adventure worth having, though, is a voyage to the Aeolian Islands off the north coast. The ancient Greeks and Romans called these islands the home of the winds, and their breezes offer some relief from the constant beat of the sun. One boasts the forge of the fire god himself: Vulcano, a volcanic island reachable by ferry or hydrofoil with sulfur baths and dark umber beaches.

Here, the intrepid and long-winded can climb to the top of the sleeping volcano that spewed forth much of the island and peer into the crater once said to be the entrance to Hades. Though it hasn’t erupted in a century, Vulcano’s main crater is far from extinct, its peak smoking with sulfur from multiple exhaust holes and the giant divot of its mouth still muddy-looking and dangerous.

The rock that surrounds the crater is as brittle and sharp as ceramic. Signs warn that hikers should spend no more than a few minutes at the top, lest the fumes intoxicate or poison them. Still, with the wind blowing freely on the sweat spent making it up, the feeling and the view are well worth the scorching hour-long climb.

While the ancient Greeks assigned their gods’ homes on the outer islands, though, they worshiped them on Sicily itself. And after experiencing Vulcano’s primordial power, you can remind yourself of the force of human culture in the Valley of the Temples in Agrigento. Here a complex of Greek temples was hewn from the native red sandstone and erected on a ridge overlooking the countryside, with the hazy cerulean smudge of the Mediterranean visible below the swell of the fields. Modern Agrigento rises to one side, and majestic sandstone forms cascade down the slope, linked by a pale road the Romans called the Sacred Way.

Each temple has its own appeal. The temple to Hera offers the best view and perhaps the most picturesque profile, perched atop the high point on the temples’ ridge. The sanctuary to Concordia is nearly intact despite the twenty-odd centuries since its construction, and dark shadows hide its inner depths even at the height of the day.

The temple of Zeus, meanwhile, is massive and almost completely destroyed, its ruins now poetically crumbling courtyards and staircases among the aloes and olive trees. The temple of Heracles demands humility, one row of its massive columns still standing and each one three times as wide around as the arm span of the average man. Together, the complex inspires awe—after two millennia, its structures are not only standing, but ethereally beautiful and seemingly indestructible.

Sicily’s mysteries are too many and too varied to explore in one short trip. But like the striking beauty of the island itself and the cultural marks so many have made on it, the memory of them will surely endure.

By Michael Yaeger

The view of the valley is perfect from the alpine meadow, as we sit warm in the sun, listening to The Magic Flute at the annual Mozart Festival.  This could easily be Salzburg or Kitsbuhl, but actually is the mountain village of Stowe in the Northeastern U.S. state of Vermont.  Stowe lies in the heart of the Green Mountains, where the cold winters make for fantastic snow sports, and the fall brings leaf peepers to see the foliage.  I’m most fond of the summers though, when the forest seems to be in full bloom, and the weather is pleasant.

It’s not accidental that this small town feels like the Alps, and there is no more visible symbol of this than the Trapp Family Lodge.  The Austrian inspired lodge and resort is operated by actual members of the Von Trapp family, whose story was told in the Sound of Music.  The main lodge is right out of the Tyrol, with dark woods and balconies lined with bright red and white flower boxes.  This theme is carried on by a number of other lodges (Northern Lights Lodge, Innsbruck Inn), and private residences around town.

While you will rarely encounter hikers in Lederhosen, there are outdoor activities of all kinds including miles of trails at the Trapp Lodge and Stowe Mountain Resort Touring Centers, Wiessner Woods and the Long Trail, all of which are free off season (and off-leash dog friendly).  There is also a scenic greenway and paved bike path that winds lazily for five and a half miles from the village center, crisscrossing the road and river leading to Mount Mansfield past shops, restaurants and a pub or two.  Make sure to stop at the Shed Brewery for a local brew on the patio overlooking the path…if you’re lucky they may have their Weizen beer on tap.

Alongside the pubs, Stowe is dotted with excellent chef-owned restaurants specializing in regional and seasonal fare, often using local ingredients.  A few offer Austrian and German dishes, and the most authentic of these is an unassuming (and unadvertised) place called the Alpenhaus, where chatty owner André Noel will greet you, inquire as to whether you have a reservation, and regardless of your answer, lead you to an almost always empty dining room.

Despite the lack of crowds, the dinner menu is authentic and extensive, with everything made extremely well from the highest quality regional products.  The dishes include a whole page of Schnitzels, potatoes in pancake, dumpling and soup forms, and quite a few vegetarian options, including one of my all time favorites, Kaesespaetzle, a decadent macaroni and cheese made with top notch New York Emmenthaler.  Attached is the Vienna Tea Room serving lunch and decadent pastries that are seriously worthy of Stephensplatz.

The Trapp Lodge also offers an Austrian Tea Room with a variety of Wursts, baked goods and desserts, while their Dining Room provides a more formal setting with a few German inspired dishes including an excellent mushroom strudel in a fresh herb cream sauce with cranberries.  In the center of the village, comprised of a couple blocks of storefronts and restaurants is a Swiss restaurant called the Swisspot offering all kinds of wonderful fondue and European dishes.

In all, Stowe offers beautiful alpine scenery, a plethora of outdoor activities no matter what time of year, and for those of us who are in love with Germania, an authentic experience like none other I have seen in the United States.

Michael Yaeger is the senior editor of TravelsInParadise.com and lives in Barre, Vermont. He can be contacted at mike@travelsinparadise.com See Michael Yaeger’s bio and more of his travel articles

By Josh Faircloth

Switzerland is a country of picturesque mountain ranges and quaint little alpine villages. I had always wanted to visit this beautiful country and now I was finally getting my chance. However, having spent the whole day on a train, I was starting to wear down and my excitement was dwindling to say the least.

A bus ride was in order before we would arrive at our final destination, but as the bus approached, I fel sense of dread boiling up within. It was getting late in the evening and I hadn’t booked accommodations, so we would have to search in the rain for a bed.

As the bus pulled off and meandered along the roadway, my spirits began to brighten a little as the scenery developed before me. The mountains gently descended down to meet the calm waters of an alpine lake. Outside my window, a rainbow appeared over the water, forming a scene so lovely, I went from a state of near exhaustion to an almost giddy exuberance. When the bus slowed to a halt, I stepped off with renewed energy and an eagerness to explore my new surroundings.

Interlaken was to be the home base for my Swiss adventure. This medium sized town is located in central Switzerland between the lakes Thun and Brienz. It offers plenty of shopping, nice architecture, and a variety of restaurants, but what really brings people to Interlaken is the wide variety of activities available due to its location in the Jungfrau region of the Swiss Alps.

The mountains around the city provide some of the finest skiing and snowboarding in the world during the cold months of the year when snow blankets the landscape. In the summer, extreme sports take center stage, with multiple companies offering an assortment of choices including bungee jumping, paragliding, river rafting, sky diving, hiking, ice climbing, mountain biking, glacier walks, canyoning, and for the particularly strong of stomach, zorbing.

Interlaken is surrounded by modestly sized mountains in the forefront, with bigger mountains in the distance. While the whole scene is impressive, the smaller mountains tend to shield the higher peaks from view, so I set out to get a better look from some of the neighboring towns. I had read in a guide book about a small village called Gimmelwald perched high in the mountains, and seeing that it wasn’t far away, I decided to make that my day trip destination.

The first stop was a town by the name of Lauterbrunnen. After stepping off the train and walking away from the station over a small hill, the panorama that unfolded before my eyes left me almost speechless. Snow-capped mountains formed a majestic stone wall around the narrow green valley.

Numerous waterfalls poured over the sides of the cliffs, adding to a scene unlike any I had ever observed. We ventured to the edge of town, where we found a small path that cut through a rolling green pasture. We followed the trail as it led to an outcrop carved into the stone mountain directly behind one of the waterfalls.

While trying not to slip on the wet rock floor, we reached out to try to touch the water cascading down just beyond the railing. After a few minutes, we slowly began our way out of the mist and back toward the station to hop on a bus toward Gimmelwald, not knowing if it could possibly top what we had already experienced, but eager to find out.

The easiest way to get to Gimmelwald is by gondola. Our gondola cabin was almost completely full, but almost everyone continued up the mountain when we stepped off. Walking outside, I was immediately overjoyed at what I found. Gimmelwald had no tourist office.

There were no streets lined with storefronts. The only sights to see were the mountains all around and the village itself. As we walked along the main street, or rather the main path, we passed quaint little houses and a fenced in lawn with a few chickens and a couple goats. I stopped in front of one particular spot that caught my eye; a house that seemingly sat on the edge of a cliff overlooking the snowy peaks that made up the backyard.

By this time, we were getting a little hungry, so I rang the doorbell on a shop that advertised for an assortment of homemade snacks. After a short delay, a young man of about high school age opened the door and invited us inside the store, which was actually the front room of his home’s basement. We stopped at another house that offered sandwiches and drinks. There were tables set up on the front porch, so we sat down and enjoyed our lunch in the warm sun and crisp alpine air.

That night, I thought about Interlaken with its architecture, friendly people, and amazing variety of exciting things to do, but what I will remember most was there in Gimmelwald. I couldn’t help but love the simplicity and the relaxed nature. Slowing down and appreciating the small things are a fact of life there. That it was also one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen seemed like icing on the cake.

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By Andy Hayes

Hiking, or ‘tramping’, is a popular activity in New Zealand.  Beautiful beaches, snow capped peaks, and clear blue streams all can be found inside the country’s national park system.  The Abel Tasman National Park, located on the remote northwest corner of the south island, is often missed by tourists.  My solitary experience of walking the 32 mile (51km) coastal trail and seeing hardly anyone except Mother Nature herself was an amazing experience.

It should be noted that the coastal trail, while well-maintained, offers little in the way of facilities or mobile phone coverage.  Walkers should be prepared with food and drink, proper footwear, cold/wet weather gear, and first aid supplies.  You must also carry a map and research coastal tides prior to departure in order to complete the length of the route safely.
My route took me from south to north, which is the most common and easiest to link in with public transport; there are other combinations you might find more suitable.

Department of Conservation huts are the only accommodation available in most parts of the park; they must be booked well in advance, especially in summer, and they are minimally appointed so be sure to pack appropriately.  They have showers and toilets but no hot water.  The huts do have kitchens but without any gas/electric, cutlery, pans, or other necessities – you will need to bring it all with you.  Sleeping arrangements are bunk beds; take a sleeping bag and a pillow.

Getting there is the first challenge.  Most fly direct into Christchurch from Australia or Auckland.  If you are travelling from Wellington there is a ferry service to Picton.  From either Picton or Christchurch you will need to take a bus to Nelson – known as the ‘gateway to Abel Tasman’ – or to Mouteka, which lies near the edge of the park.  I prefer Nelson as there is plenty of accommodation choice, reasonably priced supermarkets, and a few good restaurants.  Many of the hostels in Nelson will rent out any essential provisions you may have forgotten.

Another bus will take you to the start of the route, a raised walkway in Marahau.  Upon departing from here, the trail soon heads uphill and into forest, although the path remains steady and clear at all times.  In no time at all, you will feel as if civilization has been left completely behind.   The track is lined with various types of ferns, including the silver fern, a widely used symbol of New Zealand.

Your first decision point comes high along the path above a tidal estuary near Anchorage Bay and Torrent Bay.  There are plenty of beaches to be explored further along, so unless you are spending the night here, I suggest the high route where you can see more luscious greenery and find several suitable places to lunch.    This direction turns decidedly inwards and upwards, offering wonderful vistas before heading downward into Bark Bay.   After dropping off your gear at the hut, head straight for the beach.  The golden sand and crystal blue waters never felt so good after a long day of walking.

Leaving Bark Bay, the route is at first quite steep, and then levels out.  The water starts to become even clearer, the sand more golden, and the forests more green.  As there are few kayakers beyond Bark Bay, your views are only interrupted by a seal or passing water taxi.  Tonga Beach, with its golden-yellow sands, is a great lunch stop but this is a tidal crossing so be sure to plan ahead.

Further beyond, you will cross a chain-link suspension bridge – not for the light of heart, but it is the only way across.  Awaroa is a natural stopping point due to the estuary and the plentiful accommodation.  Huts are available here as well as the Awaroa Lodge, a luxury hotel complete with restaurant.  Be sure to have a meal at the hotel, as the food is delicious and the bar is well-stocked, including Kiwi wines and beer.  Awaroa’s white, pristine beach is covered with thousands of intricate and colorful seashells.

Leaving Awaroa requires good timing as this is the deepest of tidal crossings along the trail – the ground is covered with shells so do not go barefoot.  Afterwards it is an easy trek to Totaranui, where you can buy yourself an ice cream in the caravan park or relax on the beach.  There is also the option to spend the night here but I suggest continuing north to Whariwharangi where you can experience the exhilaration of reaching the end of the world – although it is just the end of the south island, as well as the end of the coastal trail.

Although you might not be in a rush to get back to civilization, it’s good to know your options.  From Whariwharangi you can take the Abel Tasman inland trail, which is another 23 miles (37.5 km) back to Marahau.  Otherwise you will need to head back to Totaranui for a water taxi or coach service back to Marahau and then any onward destination.

Andy Hayes is a freelance travel writer and photographer based in Edinburgh, Scotland.  To get in touch, visit his website at http://www.andyhayes.com.

Resources:
New Zealand Department of Conservation – Coastal Track Brochure: http://www.doc.govt.nz/templates/trackandwalk.aspx?id=36215
New Zealand Tourist Bureau:
http://www.newzealand.com/travel/destinations/national-parks/abel-tasman/abel-tasman.cfm
Awaroa Lodge: http://www.awaroalodge.co.nz/

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