You'd be forgiven if the headlines of the last year or so have turned you off of the idea of travelling to the United States of America. But you'd also be missing out. Despite the news, there's much more to the U.S. than contentious politics and civil unrest. In this occasional series, travel writer Bert Archer will highlight some of the reasons why a trip to America is worth your time and travel dollars. Here, why Los Angeles is, despite what you've heard, worth a walk around.
I wonder if airports really are reflections of the cities they serve, or if I’m making it up.
Toronto’s, for instance, is all grey and cold blue, unremarkable but way more efficient and workable than Torontonians give it credit for. Vancouver’s is gorgeous, and despite way more effort and money having gone into Doha’s and Dubai’s, Shanghai’s and Beijing’s, it effortlessly beats them all. Zurich’s is perfectly clean and plain, nothing much to see there, unless you know exactly where to go, in which case you find things like the Swissair lounge, where they have more than 150 whiskies, served by knowledgeable bartenders, for free.
And the Los Angeles airport, known universally by its IATA code, LAX, is a huge big mess. It is, like the city that surrounds it, just tragic. You may have to walk for close to an hour to get from one terminal to another, for instance, in the absence of something as basic as a shuttle. When added to American airport security systems, two-hour layovers can turn into mad dashes to make your flight. They recently opened a VIP terminal that essentially provides the sort of experience you get at a regular airport for the rich and famous who just can’t put up with the airport in its natural state anymore.
Los Angeles does that. It’s a wreck, just farcically bad by any metric a reasonable urban planner or city theorist or rational human being might use. A city that evolved in lockstep with the auto industry, it isolates its 9.5 million people in their cars spread out across more than 4,000 square miles, militating against the most basic aspects of what makes cities work, things like interacting, gathering, seeing each other and learning how to coexist. It’s not a coincidence that road rage was born here, little daily eruptions of fury like geysers that occasionally explode volcanically in Watts or South Central. If there is ever a revolution to overthrow the powers that underwrite that persistently injustice-riddled nation, it will likely start in this urban razor’s edge straddling that greatest of tectonic metaphors, the San Andreas Fault.
Except, boy, is it glorious. It’s a disaster like River Phoenix, who died on the sidewalk in front of the Viper Room on Sunset Boulevard, or Britney, who I once saw getting out of a cortege of Escalades with half a dozen businessmen walking her towards the Chateau Marmont. Jayne Mansfield, Charlie Sheen, Lindsay Lohan, Ramón Navarro, pick your era, this city has turned colloquially fabulous people into literally fabulous people for generations by just ruining them, and we can’t look away, because L.A. makes these human car crashes less like actual car crashes and more like J.G. Ballard’s Crash.
The first thing you notice about L.A., before you get anywhere close to the city limits, is that distance is measured differently here. You know how space distance is measured in the time it takes light to travel? L.A.’s like that, but with cars. I stayed at a motel on the Sunset Strip a few years ago, and finding out a friend of mine was in town at the same time. I called his hotel, and asked the woman who answered the phone how to get from where I was to where she was. “Oh, super easy. It’s just, like, two minutes down Sunset, turn left on Fairfax and follow it till it turns into La Cienega, turn right, and you’re here in 25 minutes,” she said. “Tops,” she said.
Now, I knew she was talking car, but in other cities where cars and people and feet co-exist, the directions she gave me would be roughly the same as walking from the Vieux Port to Laurier, Yonge and Bloor to Yonge and Eglinton, or the Village to the Upper East Side.
So I started walking at 10 a.m. I got there a little past 2 p.m. She was almost right about the directions — though I had to make a few alterations when she had me walking along the side of a freeway — but I’d failed to account for how fast L.A. cars go. Twenty-five minutes is 25 minutes at, I don’t know from miles or speedometers, but let’s say 55 mph. That’s 11 miles, or 18 km, or triple the distance from the Vieux Port to Laurier.
My friend was long gone, but I didn’t care, because the place he was staying was next door to Stoner Skate Park. I don’t skate, but I do like it when skater parks are called Stoner Skate Park. I like it a lot. I like it like I like the Museum of Death on Hollywood Boulevard that completely inexcusably features artwork made by serial killers. Or like the game Angelenos don’t even know they’re playing when I ask one of them how to get to a subway station and they, every single time, tell me L.A. doesn’t have a subway. They’ve had one since 1990, the system has 93 stations (Montreal has 68), and, sure, it’s got fewer riders per day in its entirety than go through Yonge-Bloor — one of Toronto's main transfer stations — in a day, but for these people I’ve asked not only to not know they have a subway, but to state, confidently, that they do not, that’s something special. You don’t get that everywhere. (Las Vegans also charmingly often don’t know they have city buses, but they tend to be a little less certain that they don’t have a transit system than Angelenos; my score in that game they don’t know we’re playing is 29-0 for me, btw.)
Los Angeles makes movies, of course. It’s pretty near a company town. I was printing something in an L.A. Kinko’s once (they still have them there) and noticed the person at the computer next to me was working on their headshot. Cool, I thought. That’s so L.A. I looked at the computer on the other side of me: headshot. Then I looked around the little room with computers and printers, and found I was the only one not working on a headshot or script. But though L.A. makes movies, and sometimes even sets them there, their movies rarely are about LA in any significant way. Period pieces like LA Confidential don’t count. LA Story gets it right. The 1991 Steve Martin movie is putatively about a weatherman whose job, in L.A., is so predictable he is able to tape his forecasts days in advance. But underneath run beautiful streams of order and chaos, beauty and ugliness, happiness and emptiness, a little like Down and Out in Beverly Hills five years earlier, but with less Bette Midler to leaven the flatness that has to be a character in any L.A. movie. Martin’s character, Telemacher (a delightful if not obviously apposite reference to Odysseus’ son), develops a relationship with a traffic alert sign, for instance, which is perfect given Angelenos likely spend more time in traffic than they do with any given loved one. But even before I started thinking of cars as enemies of the planet, the scene that stayed with me was the one — it probably lasts five seconds — in which Telemacher walks from his front door to his car, pulls out of the driveway, and drives next door.
Illusion of convenience? Power of habit? Good sight gag? Whatever the it was (and I’m guessing it’s all of that), it also gets to an hilarious truth about the city I experienced first-hand on my own Odyssey that day. Modifying my route to stay away from the freeways took me into some residential neighbourhoods, which struck me immediately for the fact that they did not have sidewalks. While I walked sometimes on the side of the road, sometimes across the bases of people’s lawns, I started to notice cars would slow down as they passed, and the people would peer out their windows at me.
At first I thought they were concerned that I was a criminal, the way people sometimes are when I walk through the sepulchrally quiet streets of Forest Hill in Toronto. But their faces were wrong. They were worried, but not for themselves: For me. Only one actually put down his window to ask me if I was okay, but all their faces said the same thing. The only reason anyone would be walking here is that their car broke down, or they were in some sort of physical or mental distress. When I told that one driver that I was fine, just walking to Sawtelle (the Stoner Skate Park neighbourhood), he seemed no less concerned when he rolled the window back up.
Steve Martin has written wonderful things about L.A. — jokes and short stories in addition to that screenplay – but if I had to nominate a filmmaker laureate for Los Angeles County, it would have to be Gregg Araki.
You’ll be forgiven for not knowing who he is. He’s self-consciously art-house. His third and first widely distributed movie, The Living End, was a self-consciously activist movie about two guys on a road trip to DC to inject the first President Bush with HIV-positive blood. So he’s had a self-limited audience his entire career, which he seems perfectly fine with.
But maybe watch one of his Teen Apocalypse Trilogy movies from the '90s (Totally F--ked Up, The Doom Generation, Nowhere) before going to L.A. The fact that Chicago’s Roger Ebert so utterly misunderstood these movies, hating them to the point of viciously disparaging Araki, is proof that American cities can be more like nation states than mere population centres. Ebert used to pride himself on getting foreign movies, and did a lot to help the rest of his countrypeople get them, too. But L.A. proved too foreign for him. For instance, he insisted on seeing style and story as two different things, and thought Araki favoured one over the other, but anyone who has spent any quality time in a Valley mall, a Balboa Island craft shop, or in front of one of those Lautner houses should know that in L.A., they are very much the same thing. (It’s funny, Ebert loved Clueless, and its writer-director, Amy Heckerling, is as philosophically close to Araki as one side of a coin is to the other.)
Araki’s movies are aesthetically flat and portray a morally flattened universe, where evil is pressed so tightly up against good and ambivalent that monsters — actual monsters — pop through into high school locker rooms and cars where teens are making out. They kill people, or they don’t. Sometimes they scare people, sometimes they don’t. Araki makes it clear though that living in L.A. and dying in L.A. (to paraphrase the title of another good L.A. film) is pretty much the same thing, meeting points on the same sort of circular continuum as fabulous and boring. (You can take a tour in a hearse through all the coolest death stuff the city has to offer if you like.)
It’s easy to misunderstand L.A., but if you’re there, and feel like you are, that you’re maybe agreeing with Roger Ebert and Woody Allen and all those other foreigners who instinctively hate L.A., walk out onto a main street anywhere in the county — Hollywood, Anaheim, it makes no difference — just as the sun starts to set. They call it magic hour everywhere, but in L.A., there’s an orange-purpleness to it, a scent — moist, warm, and I’m going to stop trying to come up with images like soot on an aloe vera frond or lilacs through a charcoal screen and just say its indescribable, but that it comes from the same place as the tigertail sky, and the feel the air has, a heaviness, but like one of those weighted blankets, it’s a heaviness that makes you feel good, not taken care of, but like you don’t need to be taken care of, that it’s all taken care of. All of it comes from the same place: the air quality here is atrocious. But gorgeous. Like a Haitian sculpture or shokushu goukan, the dirt, the horror, the sheer ludicrousness of it all is the point.
You’ll be tempted to give up — on travel, love, hope, life itself — as you try to make your way through any of the nine terminals at LAX, one of which, inexplicably and against international standards dictating that airport terminals are numbered, is called the Tom Bradley International Terminal. But don’t. It’s the 20th century rendered as the world’s biggest piece of installation art.
One of the best ways to experience a new destination is to let your taste buds lead the way. Food is an incredible cultural and social portal while travelling: it opens up conversations about a country’s history, traditions, climate, and more. This is all true of Vietnam, a country whose cuisine is as diverse as it is delicious. But while you’ll be hard-pressed to run out of new foods to try while you’re there, one thing’s for sure: you’re going to eat a lot of noodles. A lot of chewy, slurpy, oh-so-tasty noodles. Here are three things to know about the country’s delicious delicacies:
Appearances can be deceiving
Noodles feature in hundreds of Vietnamese dishes, from piping hot soups to refreshing cold dishes. And while the noodles used in many of these dishes may look the same, there are many different methods — and ingredients — from which they may be prepared. At first glance, for instance, Bánh phở and Bánh canh may look similar — they’re both milky white, long, and elegant — but look closer and you’ll notice that the former are flat while the latter are round. Other types of noodles are easier to tell apart: Banh pho gao lut, for instance, are a rich golden red, while Bánh đa đỏ are a deep, rich brown.
Broth not required
There are hundreds of Vietnamese dishes that feature noodles, and while the country’s most famous — pho — is a hot, brothy soup, there are plenty of dishes that include no broth at all. Noodles are a key ingredient in rice paper rolls, stir fries, and other dishes.
Dig in — then drink up
If you end up ordering a hot and brothy noodle dish, like pho, you might end up getting a bit messy while you eat it. it’s okay to slurp up the long, chewy noodles as you work your way through. Then, once you’re done, don’t be afraid to lift the bowl to your lips and drink up the delicious broth that remains. Enjoy!
Discover the noodles of Vietnam and more on a trip to Southeast Asia with National Geographic Family Journeys with G Adventures, a new line of trips for adventure-loving families in search of a meaningful way to discover the world together. With itineraries inspired by National Geographic's expertise in photography and storytelling, wildlife, culture, history, and geography, these trips let families connect with the world and each other.
For destination-driven adventurers, vacation lodging is about having a place to rest one’s head after a long day of exploring ancient settlements or testing gastrointestinal limits. It’s a place to recharge, not a place to overcharge.
Pavement-pounding, itinerary-cramming travellers can rest assured that the market for no-frills travel accommodation has come into its own, and with style to spare.
Meet the micro-hotel.
Also known as capsule hotels or pods, these itty-bitty, back-to-basics hotel rooms guarantee a bathroom, a bed, and little else (don’t worry, there’s WiFi). The concept has its origins in 1970s Japan, where walls lined with plastic sleep cubicles — built as occasional crash-pads for salarymen who chased long days at the office with long nights at area izakayas — became the stuff of worldwide imagination. But today’s pod hotels are so much more than the morgue-like cubbies of industrial Osaka (not that there’s anything wrong with the morgue-like cubbies of industrial Osaka). Think chic design details, ambient lighting systems, and mattresses like a plush hug.
Around the world, in international airport terminals and bustling urban centres alike, capsule hotels offer pragmatic and wallet-friendly lodging. And on a long layover, they’re a jetlag-mitigating must.
Here are seven capsule concepts, around the world, to consider for your next adventure:
1. BLOC Hotels: This UK-based chain boasts “luxurious linens” and “free, super-fast WiFi” in both its Birmingham and London Gatwick locations, as well as parking perks and meal deals in participating area restaurants. Rooms offer mood lighting, flat-screen televisions, and perfectly serviceable shower-toilet facilities that give visceral new life to the term “water closet.” Basic rooms start as low as 45 GBP per night, though it’s advised to book online in advance for the best rate.
2. The Pod Hotels: With centrally situated locales in Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Washington, D.C., this capsule concept by trendsetting New York hoteliers Richard Born and Ira Drukier dates all the way back to 2007. Rates start at around $100 USD per night, and include proximity to must-visit sites and, in the case of NYC’s 42nd street location, a happening new Tiki bar.
3. Yotelair: These minimalist outposts of the boutique-budget YOTEL chain are strictly found in airports: Amsterdam Schiphol, Paris Charles de Gaulle, London Gatwick and London Heathrow, Istanbul Airport, and Singapore Changi. Designed for four- to 24-hour stays in between connecting flights, rooms feature either sci-fi sleep pods or convertible sofabeds, complementary hot drinks, and the requisite high-speed WiFi, and they book by the hour.
4. Sleeep: Think outside the box… by sleeping inside one. No, this isn’t a dare. An affordable option in notoriously spendy Hong Kong, Sleeep’s wood-paneled bed nooks — branded “SLPers” — might possibly be the most literal interpretation of “capsule” yet. One man’s claustrophobia is another’s cozy comfort, and with overnight rates that start at 499 Hong Kong Dollars, there are definitely worse ways to get a night’s rest.
5. The Jane Hotel: Tucked into a Landmark building in New York City’s West Village, The Jane was built in 1908 to house sailors. A 2008 restoration polished the century-old jewel to its present-day glory, modelling the hotel’s rooms after ship and train cabins in winking homage to its past. 130 Standard Cabins and 40 Bunk Bed cabins offer handsome, if pared-down, privacy for guests’ overnight snoozing; slippers and bathrobes are provided for late-night shuffles to the communal bathrooms. A breathtaking, turn-of-the-century ballroom, complimentary bicycles, and seasonal rooftop bar and nightclub don’t hurt, either.
6. Pangaea Pod: Each winter sees snow bunnies and powder pirates descend on Whistler, the British Columbia ski and snowboard hotspot, for frosty fun on the slopes. Pangea opened in 2018 to bridge the gaping chasm between chi-chi chalets and low-rent hostels, while promising the best of both. A short walk from the gondolas at Whistler’s Blackcomb resort, its prime-location rates are offset by no-fuss accommodations. We’re talking literal pods: double beds in a three-walled box that guests enter through a curtained opening. A rooftop patio and indoor café provide just-right social settings for a chill, interactive vibe.
7. 9 Hours: A favourite among budget travellers looking for an elevated twist on the authentic capsule experience, this Japanese chain is prized for its neo-space-age interiors and killer locations. Overnight rates at the hotel’s Tokyo location begin at just 4,900 Yen, roughly $45 USD.
After decades of civil war and instability, Colombia is stepping into the spotlight as an engaging destination, brimming with potential, and, for travelling food lovers, a larder that’s packed with unique and vibrant flavours. According to Ana Belen Cherry, MasterChef Colombia finalist and anthropology student studying ethnic gastronomy, there are a whopping 36 gastronomic regions within the underrated country’s borders.
Colombia’s capital and largest city, Bogotá is an emerging culinary hotspot, having caught the eye of the folks at Latin America’s Best Restaurants to host the fifth and sixth editions of the awards. Just as the country’s chefs and restaurants are gaining international recognition, so too are the indigenous ingredients and cooking styles. It’s why I’m found roaming through Paloquemao Square on the west side of the city eagerly accepting _una muestr_a (a sample) of unrecognizable fruits offered by its friendly market vendors. As someone who actively seeks out unfamiliar foods, I’m blown away by the diversity of the native products I encounter, learning that Colombia is the second most biodiverse country in the world after Brazil.
From food stalls to restaurants, I find a plethora of taste experiences that refresh, excite and register widely on the deliciousness scale. Whether it was traditional dishes or flavours used in contemporary, sometimes boundary pushing, menus – capybara, anyone? The wild rodent is fantastic smoked and served in a consommé made from its own meat at award-winning chef Leonor Espinosa’s refined Leo. Promise – I was most drawn to the sense of pride in the culture’s food, and the recognition that much of it is still awaiting discovery.
It’s easy to please your belly with crowd favourites like potato and meat filled empanadas, arepas, and tamales or to soak yourself in some of the world’s best coffee, but I find it hard to pass on trying foods that draw on the ancestral knowledge of indigenous and Afro-Colombian, like Leo’s rainforest-sourced leaf-cutter ants, especially if it’s available at an affordable price.
Want to broaden your flavour horizons? Here are some wonderful and unique foods to get you started:
Thick, hearty, and synonymous with Bogota, the famous Cuban-inspired stew consists of shredded chicken, three kinds of potatoes, and corn on the cob. Made with giant capers and guasca (a grassy and flavourful Colombian herb), the dish is served with avocado, cream, rice and more capers.
A popular breakfast, snack or Christmas food, these addictive golf ball-sized fried doughs are made using a batter made from queso costeño, a soft white cheese, and cassava flour. Best consumed warm, the mildly sweet cheese fritters have a delightful crust and a tender, almost cakey center.
Also known as pineapple guava, the egg-shaped fruit has a bumpy waxy lime-green skin that shields a thick, white, granular interior that has a jelly-like seeded core. Floral and nutritious, the fruit’s sweetness straddles pineapples and strawberries while hinting of spearmint, and can be eaten raw, juiced, made into cider and wine, or cooked in stews, pastries, chutneys or jams.
As a passion fruit lover, finding a sweeter variety was a revelation. Rip open the round fruit’s yellow rind to reveal the juicy, jelly-like pulp with dark, crunchy seeds that can be eaten or juiced. But the surprise was being told you’re supposed to swallow the seeds and not chew them as I had always done (the latter might result in gastrointestinal distress). Alas, old habits are hard to break.
A glorious traditional dish that stuffs suckling pig with peas, rice, and spices then roasted for hours. The handsome beast sports crispy crackling that sits over tender and flavourful meat in an all-in-one meal.
A bright orange egg-shaped fruit that looks like it’s a cross between a kiwi and tomato. Due to its super tart rhubarb meets lime flavour, the translucent flesh and green seeds are not typically eaten straight but made into smoothies (batidos) or blended with ice, lime, water and sugar to make a refreshing citrus drink called lulanda.
Look for the street cart with the picture of Mick Jagger on it near the Plaza de Bolivar in Bogota. There you can pick up circular wafers the size of your head sandwiching a sweet filling of arequipa (dulce de leche), a sweet and sticky Colombian caramel.
These might have a similar scaly bulbous exterior and black seed-flecked white interior as their bland magenta Southeast Asian cousin, but the yellow-skinned variety native to Colombia is blessed with pleasing, succulent flesh that’s super juicy, sweet like a pear but with the crunch of a kiwi.
Tamarillo (Tomate de árbol)
Resembling a plum tomato, the fruit has a juicy, slightly acidic seed-ridden orange flesh that’s cloaked with a smooth, but bitter, red or orange skin that’s often darkly streaked. Peeled and eaten, the tree tomato is regularly made into smoothies, blended with water and sugar for juice, and even incorporated into chocolate bars.
The popular round fruit can be recognized by its fine sandpaper-like skin, dark orange interior and massive pair of black seeds. But it’s the wildly floral aroma and mildly sweet flavour of its soft, viscous and almost fibrous creamy flesh that’s used in milkshakes, smoothies and ice creams.
There's no question, having kids changed me as a traveller.
Where once the idea of snapping up a deal and heading off on an adventure felt simple and easy, suddenly I had to contemplate whether the little people would be okay.
I know I'm not the only one who has wondered if my jet set dreams had to go the way of my favourite pre-maternity jeans once the kids arrived. I'm willing to bet that most new parents feel the same way.
We took that first trip and then we didn't stop. Seventeen years into the parenting game, travel is an integral part of our lives. And I can tell you with confidence that not only can you can take the kids with you when you travel, but there are plenty of reasons why you should.
1. They're portable
It's true. Kids are built to move. And adventures can always be sought out that match your kids' age and stage. You'll find plenty of accommodations and activities that bend over backwards to make sure your family is comfortable but introducing a trip that requires kids' go outside their comfort zone can be good too. There's nothing that will make a demanding 11-year old appreciate her room at home more than having to share one with her brothers on the road.
2. There are kids where you're going
I've been travelling with my kids since they were infants and we have yet to get to a city, rural enclave or mountaintop and not bump into another wee person. If kids can live in the places you're visiting, you can bring yours.
3. You are responsible for teaching them how to travel
Yup, it's on you. Want to raise kids who know better than to kick the seat in front of them on a plane? You'll need to travel. Trips offer opportunities to teach lessons in respecting boundaries, following rules, self-entertaining and more. All of which will make life at home better.
4. Travel can cement family values
Want to raise kids who understand that diverse cultures have lots to offer or who appreciate that we all have a role to play in protecting the planet? Travel. Taking my kids on the road reduced the noise around what we value as a family. All these years later, those values still hold firm.
5. Hiccups you'll face on the road aren't that different from the ones waiting at home
The idea that you are safer at home than while travelling is often untrue. We've found that applying the same general safety rules at home and abroad works. Kids will still catch a cold, dislike a particular dish, be miserable on the road just like home, but a little bit of schedule flexibility and patience usually do the trick.
6. Great trips can reduce your choices (in a good way)
At home, the fight to get kids to practice for six sports, meals on the table plus pick out the perfect shade of grey for the living room walls created stress that was all our own doing. And the kids felt it too. Being able to let go of all of those commitments and focus instead on the world we were seeing, and our role in it was a luxury and a sanity saver.
7. Travel teaches resilience and promotes self-confidence
Far from home, kids get to test out who they are without fear or peer pressure. Often our daily lives don't allow much space for kids to think freely. Removing them from home and showing them new things, gives them air to breathe anew.
8. Travel allows you to lead by example
No one says, "I hope my kids learn to squash their dreams and desires." And yet, as parents we often push our passions to the side. Instead, talk to your kids about why you want to travel, about what mysteries in the world you're excited to uncover and watch their eyes light up with a desire to do the same.
9. They won't be available to you forever
Both the blessing and the curse of childhood is that it doesn't last forever. Kids grow up and begin to have their own lives and working those into your travel schedule can be tough. While they're little, time is on your side. Make the most of it.
10. Great adventures are waiting for your family
Use travel as an opportunity to take on bold adventures together. Spark their imagination and sense of wonder with a walk through a Costa Rica rainforest or watch their faces light up when they don a Samurai helmet and sword in Japan. Venture out and show them the world and I guarantee they'll show you new things too.
Game of Thrones fans will no doubt feel pangs of loss this coming Sunday, as the HBO series airs its last-ever episode. For those who want to relive a bit of GoT magic after the series has wrapped, here are four places around the world where the show filmed some of its most memorable scenes — and how to get there.
Most of Game of Thrones' indoor scenes were shot at constructed sets in Ireland, but the country's scenic vistas and breathtakingly diverse wilderness also served as the setting for many of the show's outdoor scenes. Larne Lough served as the setting for Castle Black and the Wall, while the small town of Moneyglass acted as the setting for Winterfell.
The Dragonpit played a pivotal role in Game of Thrones' eighth season, and filming for this location took place in Spain — specifically, in Seville, at the Italica Amphitheatre of Santiponce. Fans may also recall that, in past seasons, Spain's Basque region served as a stand-in for the Targaryens' home, Dragonstone.
The beautiful Croatian coast — and specifically the city of Dubrovnik — was used as the setting for the iconic King's Landing for the entirety of Game of Thrones' eight seasons, and will surely prove memorable for not only its scenic coast and sun-dappled vistas, but for the importance King's Landing played in the series overall. What better reason is there for a superfan to visit?
Iceland's frigid, remote, otherworldly landscapes were perfect for Game of Thrones, which filmed scenes that took place north of the Wall here. It might be difficult for fans to visit without imagining the terrifying White Walkers stalking through Iceland's desolate snowy plains — though, if this is of concern to you, might we suggest visiting in the summertime?
When travellers are planning their trips to Thailand, the first stops that come to mind are often the most well-trod ones: stops in Chiang Mai, for instance, and Bangkok are must-dos. But the beautiful Southeast Asian country has so much more to offer, in terms of urban wonders, than its most populous cities. Here, five lesser-known Thai cities that you should absolutely put on your bucket list.
1. Mae Hong Son
Where it is: On the border of Thailand and Myanmar, in the mountainous Thai province of the same name.
Why you should go: Because of its proximity to Thailand, visiting Mae Hong Son might feel like experiencing a little bit of Myanmar — there is some cultural overlap, and it's unlike anything (or anywhere) else on the planet.
Where it is: About 230 kilometres north of Bangkok, Sukhothai is characterized by its relative remoteness.
Why you should go: Sukhothai is a UNESCO World Heritage City, due to its proliferation of ancient temple ruins. In fact, the city was the birthplace of Thai architecture and culture, so if you want to get a good taste of Thailand's history, there's nowhere better to be.
3. Khao Lak
Where it is: On Thailand's south-central coast. "Khao lak" translates in English to "Lak mountain", which is the highest peak in the area's hilly region.
Why you should go: If you're seeking a bit of peace, quiet, and serenely calm beachfront, Khao Lak is the place to go. It's a change of pace from many of Thailand's other cities, which are vibrant, colourful, and bustling — and who doesn't need a moment to recharge every now and again?
Where it is: Western Thailand, in the province of the same name.
Why you should go: History buffs may be particularly interested in a visit: the Burma Railway — which includes the infamous bridge over the River Kwai — is located in Kanchanaburi.
5. Chiang Rai
Where it is: Northern Thailand, in the mountainous province of the same name.
Why you should go: Chiang Rai is the bustling Chiang Mai's sister town, and for all of the latter's popularity, Chiang Rai is decidedly more laid-back. Like Khao Lak, this is a great place to sit back and enjoy the scenery.
The lineups for smoked meat and half-sour pickles at Schwartz’s stretch back 90 years. At Wilensky’s, the salami and bologna special comes with mustard and is never sliced, don’t even ask, because that’s how they’ve done it since 1932. Eighty years of practice at charcoal broiling dry-aged beef has turned Moishe’s into one of the world’s top steakhouses, and at L’Express the bone marrow and cornichons are a nearly 40-year-old tradition.
Montreal’s old-school culinary heritage is deep and firmly established. There’s also a current crop of iconic spots that are equally well regarded. A reservation at Joe Beef or Liverpool House is enough to warrant a trip to the city for people all over the world. Similarly, a pilgrimage to Martin Picard’s Au Pied du Cochon for foie gras poutine or duck in a can (only the foolish would attempt both in one sitting) is a bucket-list event for many, and no restaurant in Canada might be more deserving of Michelin stars than Toqué.
But those places are all entering their second and third decades now, and while they remain excellent, I wanted to find out where the next batch of great Montreal restaurants is and get a taste of the places that will define the city’s food scene for generations to come.
Situated in what was once a massive garage used to repair train cars, three-year-old Hoogan & Beaufort blends old brick charm with towering, modern glass windows and chic black pendant lights suspended from exposed beams. The kitchen also melds archaic elements with contemporary flourishes. At the heart of the restaurant, and the thing that gives it such an appetizing aroma, is the open, wood-burning hearth. Nearly every dish chef Marc-Andre Jette and his team turn out includes some element touched by this fire. Locally grown oyster mushrooms are draped with translucent slices of Louis d’Or cheese and a crisp slice of smoked bread. Agnolotti are stuffed with smoky squash and shreds of duck confit. Even the dessert cart features a burnt lemon curd. This is thoughtful, elemental cooking that feels both modern and timeless.
Autumn 2015 was a good year for the new batch of Montreal classics and around the same time Hoogan & Beaufort opened in the city’s Rosemount neighbourhood, Le Mousso served its first tasting menu in the Village. Chef Antonin Mousseau-Rivard and his young team only offer tasting menus and the restaurant’s minimalist décor, spare Scandinavian furniture against cement walls and floors, is reflected in the menu’s minimal descriptions. Caille/Fruits (Quail/Fruit, in English) reads the menu, but it hardly captures the complexity of what arrives on three handmade plates. “First,” explains the chef who delivers the dish, “the bird is cooked over charcoal. Then the breast is served with an elderberry grand-veneur sauce [a sticky reduction of veal broth and red wine], green elderberry capers and freeze dried elderflowers. On the next plate, the deboned leg is served with herb pate and unripe salted fruits.” On the third little plate, the white, tightly rolled cylinder is simply a hot, chamomile scented hand towel, for wiping off all the stickiness after the last bite. So it goes, through course after course: truffles are shaved over rich gougeres, ham flavoured broths are ladled over intricately arranged vegetables, and herbaceous sauces are spooned onto trembling cubes of halibut. Along the way a series of intriguing natural wines — low intervention style wines that are quickly becoming a Montreal sommelier trademark — are paired.
A few blocks away, in Old Montreal, the beautiful people are swarming to Monarque, a space so fresh it still has that new restaurant smell about it. The sprawling space — a laid back brasserie and bar is divided from the formal dining room by towering, refrigerated vitrines holding still life arrangements of meat and produce — only opened a couple of months ago, but already has the feel of something that’s been there for years. Modern French classics with Asian and Levantine flourishes: Korean venison tartare with Asian pear and gochujang, grilled sweetbreads with labneh and charmoula, pumpkin tarte with chai ice cream, inform the smart menu and enhance the long-established vibe of the place. Father and son duo, Richard and Jérémie Bastien — of the adored, 18-year-old Montreal classic Leméac — have opened one of the grandest, most ambitious restaurants Montreal has seen in years.
Little Italy’s Mon Lapin, an outpost of the Joe Beef empire headed up by sommelier Vanya Filipovic and chef Marc-Olivier Frappier, is quickly gaining the kinds of accolades that made its parent restaurant such a global success. The proximity to the vast Jean Talon Market and the cleverness of the cooks means that menus change daily, but the emphasis is always on freshness and simplicity. Already, the “pink salad,” a bright combination of radicchio and endive with caramelized sunflower seed praline dressing and lashings of shaved foie gras, is a Montreal classic. By replacing the traditional guanciale in the carbonara pasta with smoked eel from the St. Lawrence, the kitchen puts a local twist on a Roman staple.
They don’t take reservations at Mon Lapin, so there’s always a lineup. With any luck it will still be there in 90 years.
The sights, sounds, and tastes of Japan are captivating. In order to truly get a feel for this incredible country and its offerings, it’s best to immerse yourself in as much of its history and culture as possible. One way to do this: check out a taiko performance. Here are three things to know about the history of Japanese percussion before you go.
In Japan, “taiko” can refer to any drum; it’s only outside of the country that “taiko drums” are taken to mean percussive instruments of Japanese origin. The instruments were introduced to Japan centuries ago, likely from Korea or China; there’s archaeological evidence that the drums were introduced to Japan in the 6th century, after Japanese musicians travelled to learn how they were constructed and played.
Built to last
Constructing a taiko is no small feat. In the past, the wood to construct the base of the drum would have been dried for years, though in recent years modern techniques have allowed craftsman to expedite this process somewhat. Tree trunks are hollowed out and carefully chiseled into the shape of a drum, then fitted with handles which may be functional or decorative. Then, cowhide (or bullhide) is stretched over each end to create the drumming surface. The skin is stretched incrementally over the frame to avoid tearing and create even tension. Sometimes a circle of deerskin is placed in the centre of the drum, to act as a target for the player.
Taiko come in a variety of shapes, sizes, and sounds. They are categorized according to their construction method: Byō-uchi-daiko have the drumhead nailed to the body. Shime-daiko’s drum skin is placed over iron or steel rings, and Tsuzumi have an hourglass shape and deerskin drumheads.
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Nestled underneath snow-peaked mountains, Japan’s countryside hot spring resorts easily lure tourists away from busy cities. But not me — I went to Spa World instead.
Taking up two floors of a hotel in Osaka’s Shinsekai district, Spa World is an around-the-world themed water park where each room is decorated to look like a different country. It’s as impressive as it is strange and I loved every moment of it. Why choose the luxury and tranquility of traditional onsen when you could spend a day naked in Japan’s answer to Disney’s Epcot Centre?
The nakedness adds a surreal element to Spa World’s fake Italian grotto, Grecian pools and Finnish cedar tubs. It felt like I was a cut-out paper doll sliding through travel postcards. I was at your most real, my truest form, and yet an alien in this environment of crude imitations. It was almost like reverse-drag, the costume was outside of the self.
At all Japanese bathhouses, or sentōs, it’s common to go nude. Usually there are signs posted that no bathing suits are allowed. You strip down, give yourself a scrub and hang out with all your new friends. When you physically look different than all your new friends, you might get some stares but that’s all part of the experience. Getting in the water tends to neutralize the attention and everyone gets in their own relaxation mode.
If you go to Spa World, or really any bathhouse, try not to be uncomfortable about the lack of clothing. Just get into the vibe and leave your towel behind. Historically, there’s a been a track record of Westerners heavily criticizing sentōs. It started in the mid-19th century after Japan lifted their isolation policy and re-allowed visitors to the country. The main issue was that foreigners couldn’t believe that Japanese people were comfortable with “mixed bathing.” In the 1850’s, American naval commander Matthew Perry wrote, “the sexes mingled indiscriminately, unconscious of their nudity” and this did not give “a very favourable opinion of the morals of the inhabitants.”
In comparison, back home in America, women were going to the Jersey Shore in hooded thick flannel dresses. They entered little houses, called “bathing machines” that were carted out into the ocean by horses so they could take a dip completely unseen. It’s safe to say that Perry, and his countrymen, had zero chill about bodies.
As trade relations opened up, the Japanese government became worried about the global perception of their bathing practices. In 1868 they banned mixed bathing. There are still some rare sentōs that keep up the tradition, but Spa World is not one of them. The two floors, one themed Europe and the other themed Asia, are divided by gender and alternate monthly. When I went, the European floor was for women and I didn’t get to see the tiled Turkish hammam or Balinese mud baths.
From what I saw, Spa World was heavy on the type of sincerity and kitsch that I admire in Japanese culture. Do it weird and do it well. After the entrance showers, you step into an Ancient Rome-style jacuzzi surrounded by columns. At the back, there’s a sculpture of the Trevi Fountain. No coins, just dimes in the water, if you know what I mean. Then you wander through connecting steam rooms, saunas and cold pools that lead to a cave modelled after the Blue Grotto in Capri, Italy. This is where I hide out for a bit, getting comfortable with my new naked state before I venture into the “Mediterranean Sea,” a large outdoor pool with roof-height waterfalls and foot baths which are somehow inspired by Spain.
In general, my naked comfort level ranges somewhere between “skinny dipped at summer camp” and “doesn’t shower at the gym.” By this I mean, going naked wasn’t a big fear to get over, but it had been awhile. There are clothing-optional bathing choices in my home city of Toronto but they are not on my agenda. I’d rather be suited up. I wasn’t on a nudist vision quest, but Spa World was calling to me. There was something appealing about being so anonymous and out-of-place. That, and the chance to recover after days of endless walking around Tokyo and Osaka.
I spent almost a full day at Spa World. In the Atlantis-themed room, I watched fish and baby sharks swim beneath the glass floor. Underneath Erechtheion statutes, in the Greece room, I breathed in herbal steams of eucalyptus and lavender. In the Scandinavian area, with Finnish cabins and Northern Lights painted on the ceiling, I worked up the courage to go for a traditional body scrub. If you’re going to do something, do it all the way, right?
Although it might be aesthetically far from a rustic onsen resort with babbling brooks, moss-covered rocks and fresh country air, Spa World is definitely unique. Without leaving the city, I got a solid dose of relaxation and returned to the busy streets of Dōtonbori, Osaka’s entertainment district, with the glow of a baby angel.
I’m convinced that my day of naked bathing helped me connect to Japan on a deeper level. I shed my clothes, a layer of skin, and some emotional distance from the culture. Maybe this was the effect of “skinship,” a Japanese term for the closeness you gain when there’s nothing but skin between you. It’s special, yet ordinary — the visceral discovery that we’re all just human in our bodies.