Q: Are there any foods that will help me fight jet lag? —George Frank, Brooklyn, N.Y.
A: Even more than foreign-transaction fees and data-roaming charges, jet lag is the bane of international travelers. Resetting your internal clock to a new time zone can be a days-long process. Fortunately, there are ways to ease yourself onto a new schedule—and what you eat and drink can play a key role.
Most good restaurants in the United States expect to turn over a table two to three times each night—that means they anticipate a party of two will stay for about an hour and 45 minutes (four-tops are usually allotted two hours). So once you’ve paid your bill, try not to spend the next hour nursing your final sip of wine. Internationally, diners enjoy a more leisurely pace. In Italy, for instance, experts say it’s virtually impossible to overstay your welcome. In countries from Australia and China to Argentina, meals typically run a full two to three hours. If you don’t know the protocol, look to the waitstaff for cues. They’ll let you know when your time’s up.
As a general rule, yes, as long as you keep your items in the sealed plastic bag from Duty Free. Some countries (South Africa and Argentina included) will confiscate liquids over 3.4 ounces in secondary, at-gate security checks; duty-free items, however, should be exempt. Until recently, if you had a connecting flight in the European Union or the U.S., you would have to either stow your purchases in your checked bag as you switched planes or toss them. But the introduction of new liquid scanners in the EU and the relaxing of such rules in the States (thank you, TSA) mean that you can now carry these items on board.
Looking to book a Shanghai street-food tour or a Provençal cooking class? Let these new food apps and sites take care of the legwork.
Best For Tailored Recommendations: Peek
Like an OpenTable for guided activities and food crawls, Peek(free; iOS) provides direct booking service straight from the app or website. Its real strength lies in its carefully curated content—all outings are vetted by Peek staff or trusted tastemakers. Take a quick personality quiz for customized suggestions.
Why Foodies Love It: Unique offerings—a dinner cruise on the Thames in London; a coffee plantation visit in Maui—are the rule, not the exception.
Gone are the days of rushing through security and jumping straight onto your flight—you can thank the TSA for that. “Travelers are spending more time in airports than ever,” says Frank Sickelsmith, vice president of restaurant development for HMS Host, one of two major firms that turn airports into epicurean hangouts. The upside? “Now they can have a full sit-down meal instead of grabbing and going.” And that’s where innovators like Sickelsmith come in.
Virgin America 82.08 JetBlue Airways 74.18 Hawaiian Airlines 71.59
The demise of free meal service in economy class has meant the rise of better buy-on-board options. To wit: Virgin America earns raves for its on-demand dining via seatback touch screen and snacks from home-grown artisanal brands, such as San Francisco’s Humphry Slocombe ice cream. JetBlue is a favorite for its Terra chips and boxed meals (try the roast beef sandwich); starting in June, Mint seat fliers can sample a small-plates menu by New York’s Saxon & Parole. Hawaiian Airlines bucked the cost-cutting trend: it’s the only U.S. airline to still serve complimentary meals on domestic flights in coach. The onboard snack bar keeps it local, selling everything from Spam musubi to macadamia nuts.
Booking a great fare to Europe has become increasingly difficult. Here’s how to bring down the cost of your next transatlantic flight.
First there is the question of timing. According to Kayak, the most-affordable airfares to Europe last year were booked eight to 10 weeks before departure—so you should start researching tickets at least three months out. You’ll find even better prices if your travel dates are flexible. As a general rule, European fares rise for travel beginning in the second week of May and don’t fall again until September. Expedia reports that the least expensive months to fly to Europe are February, March, and November. If you can, look for tickets that depart for Europe on either a Tuesday or Wednesday and return on a Tuesday; they tend to be lower, according to Kayak’s research. (See “Fare Finders,” below, for our favorite sites for finding European airfares.)
Choose an agency. Large companies, such as Hertz and Enterprise or Europe-based Sixt, are best equipped to handle special requests (automatic transmission; GPS devices; children’s car seats). Local agencies often have lower prices but may not offer 24-hour service if something goes wrong.
Book in advance. When reserving online, check hours of operation for rental locations. Airports are usually open every day, but city-center sites may have limited hours, often closing for a few hours at midday and all day Sunday.
Crystal Serenity—fresh from a $17 million makeover—is bringing foods of the world (Alsatian tarte; lamb dumplings from North Africa) to its Tastes restaurant. The “living walls” planted in the alfresco Trident Grill provide the herbs.
Befitting its home port of Miami, the new Norwegian Getaway has cooked up the Tropicana Room, a retro dinner club with a decidedly Latino vibe. To order: ceviche and churrasco steak.
New guest lecturers aboard Holland America Line ships include New York Times food columnist Mark Bittman and Jehangir Mehta, a former protégé of Jean-Georges Vongerichten.
Oceania’s Riviera and Marina are now offering food-themed excursions and courses, such as a tour of the Mercado Central in Valencia, Spain, followed by an onboard paella class.
Music City’s once-gritty 12 South district is on the rise, with 1920’s bungalows reimagined as locavore restaurants and stylish shops. T+L walks the line.
Go full Willy Wonka at Jeni’s Splendid Ice Cream, an Ohio import where the wackadoodle flavors include Riesling-poached pear and goat cheese with red cherries. Worth two scoops: “biscuits & peach jam,” inspired by the classic dish at nearby Loveless Café. 2312 12th Ave. S.
Three reasons we’d rather be in Florence right now: flaky cornetti, bracingly strong espresso, and that inimitable Italian sensibility. Here, how to fit in—plus a few places to get your fix.
The Locations: Take in the scene at Chiaroscuro, home to 30-minute coffee-tasting classes; the wood-paneled Caffè Cibrèo, where Isidoro Vodola has been perfecting his drinks for 25 years; and Caffè Florian, which recently added an airy art gallery.
The Look: Leather handbag by Salvatore Ferragamo. Cashmere-and-silk scarf, Loro Piana. Leather iPad case, Etro. Cat-eye sunglasses, Persol. Calfskin wallet, Bulgari. Lipstick in Scarlett, Dolce & Gabbana. Nine-karat rose-gold ring, Pomellato.
In Melbourne, the latest wave of buzzy restaurants and bars share a common menu item: virtue.
One more reason to love Australia’s second city: a string of new establishments that are on a mission to pay it forward—without force-feeding the matter. Boho-chic hangout Shebeen serves up a globe-trotting menu of craft beers and cocktails, then hands 100 percent of its profits to charities in developing countries. Order a Sri Lanka–made Sinha Stout, for example, to support Room to Read, which helps develop children’s literacy skills throughout Asia and Africa.
The tealike beverage is a favorite Argentinean tradition (even Pope Francis loves it), but it comes with a set of unwritten rules. Juan Carlos Cremona, owner of La Martina de Areco (54-23/2645-5011), a café in San Antonio de Areco, outside Buenos Aires, explains the ritual.
1. In groups, a cebador (leader) is chosen to serve everyone. He or she heats water to just below the boiling point, then pours it into a flask.
2. The gourd—a dried squash or a wood-lined metal goblet—holds the ground yerba maté leaves. Purists use a sieve to remove twigs.
3. The cebadormoistens the grounds to release the flavor, inserts a bombilla (straw), adds more water, and passes the gourd to the first drinker.
4. On your turn, sip with gusto. Some add sugar or honey, but real gauchos take it amargo—bitter. When done, say “gracias” and pass it along.
5. Hungry? Locals often enjoy their maté with galletas dulces (sweet pastries).
It may be the tail end of whale watching-season in Hawaii, but with the new interactive map that tracks their migration, you can follow your favorites all year long.
For more than 20 years, Cascadia Research has been compiling whale data that has, unfortunately, remained inaccessible to the public. Thanks to Scot McQueen at the startup Earth Science-software development team, Smartmine, this rich mine of information can now be tapped.
“What you see right now,” McQueen says of the interactive map—a hypnotic swirl of ocean and wind currents undulating across the Pacific and speckled with pods of migrating whales—“is just the tip of the iceberg.”
Soon, McQueen and his team of developers hope to incorporate all of Cascadia’s data, giving the map a global spread and providing users new ways to identify with the data.
Instead of an abstract pin, the Smartmine Whale Tracking Map will provide visitors with the actual photographs of each individual whale. “It’s the idea that this is a unique animal—not just data—and you can have a deeper connection with it.”
In addition to Hawaii’s hallmark humpback whales, you can track the migrations of pigmy killer whales around Oahu, sperm whales, beaked whales, and false killer whales as they converge at the tip of Kapaau.
When asked about the potential threat this data could cause to the whales’ safety (noting the recent reports of poachers tracking endangered rhinos with geotagged safari photos in South Africa) McQueen assured us that the Whale Tracker has the animals’ best interests at heart.
“There’s absolutely no live data,” McQueen said. While whale enthusiasts can’t rely on the map for an accurate sighting, the delay in transmission keeps the whales from being harassed.
Ultimately, McQueen and his team are driven by the desire to bridge the enormous gap between the scientific and general communities, and to cultivate the shared desire to explore our planet.
Melanie Lieberman is an editorial intern and a member of the Trip Doctor News Team. You can follow her on twitter at @LittleWordBites.
According to a report from CAPA-Centre for Aviation, 15 new airlines in China have launched or are scheduled to launch by the end of 2014—a 50% increase in the country’s passenger airlines. This sudden growth began late last year, when China began loosening restrictions on new LLCs and start-up companies. (Though according to the report, the reform initiatives “remain subject to interpretation and implementation.”)
Whether you're a cruise novice or expert, join our Cruise Travel Twitter chat this Tuesday, May 27th from 2 p.m. to 3 p.m. EST. We'll be asking experts about emerging cruise destinations, ship trends, and even industry misconceptions. Join along and ask them for their insider advice!
Berlin resident Gisela Williams explores the proud new zeitgeist taking hold in her adopted homeland.
Like so many German words, Heimat is impossible to translate. Some describe it as a “homeland” or sense of belonging—your roots, so to speak. The French might liken it to terroir. But after the Nazis hijacked it, Heimat became a loaded term—all but erased from the German lexicon. Until a few years ago, I’d barely heard it uttered. Today, however, the concept is making a comeback, thanks to a cadre of artists, chefs, and thinkers who are trying to rescue Heimat from its nationalistic undertones and bring it up-to-date.
New York City: Burrata with lox; buffalo skate wings: Amanda Freitag takes greasy-spoon food to new heights at Empire Diner($$), a reboot of the Chelsea landmark. The 65-seat Brooklyn Fare Manhattan($$$$) has finally opened, bringing the outer borough’s most coveted reservation to Hell’s Kitchen.
Philadelphia: Expect two spots in May from the increasingly prolific Michael Solomonov and Steve Cook (Zahav): Abe Fisher ($$$), inspired by Jewish cuisine from Europe, the U.S., and Canada, and the casual Israeli-style hummusiyaDizengoff ($).
The next time I want a stress-free family vacation, I'm going all inclusive. We all know the perks—kids clubs, babysitters, easy access to restaurants, powdery beaches within walking distance. But culture? Not so much. Now Club Med is attempting to change that by reinventing the city stopover. Launching this summer, its City Stops program is perfect for families seeking an urban adventure, along with downtime at a resort. So far, the company has rolled out to 9 cities (Hong Kong, Bangkok, New York, Miami, Dubai, to name a few), partnering with top hotels such as Mandarin Oriental, Shangri-La and Tribeca Grand. Guests have everything taken care of, from hotel bookings to transfers and flights, and can customize the length of their stay to either before or after their beach visit.
Top photo by Christina Conrado; bottom photo courtesy of Club Med.
What happens when an East Village chef heads to the legendary beachside haunt of Parador La Huella to cook Uruguayan food? Gabrielle Hamilton, chef of New York City’s Prune restaurant, finds out.
I am working in front of a queen-size bed of hot coals. My sweat is trickling—and, at times streaming—down the backs of my kneecaps into my clogs. A winged column of eucalyptus logs—in an iron-barred grate bound to the back wall—burns lively in front of me, dropping red coal like gargantuan, mythic bird scat. Andres Viñales, the pit maestro, rakes these coals expertly with a long iron hook into a shallow bed before me, at waist level, but the heat rises and stings under my chin. I have doubled up my aprons, one on top of the other, to make a better barrier. This kind of fire can melt the plastic buttons on my chef uniform and leave coin-shaped red bites—cruelly, neatly—down my torso. But I learned that—the hard way—a decade ago. I am cool, now, comparatively. “Puedes make this a little mas fuerte, por favor?” I ask Andres. It’s not hot enough.
T+L Insider Video: Foodie Getaways
I’ve been invited here to the remote beachside town of José Ignacio, on the coast of Uruguay, to cook a guest-chef dinner at La Huella. Legendary among chefs I know and flocked to by vacationing South American cognoscenti, the restaurant is a kind of sprawling, open-air beach shack that was opened over 10 years ago. The giant cooking hearth, the very cool DJ, and a sand-in-your-hair vibe are at the center of what makes it so persuasive. I’ve harbored both a fondness for and an envy of La Huella for years, so when I received an invitation to come and cook Uruguayan food, my heart jumped. I’ve built my whole menu around this live fire—an opportunity I just don’t get enough of in my East Village, New York City, restaurant that offers nothing “open-air” but grimy sidewalks and parked cars.
So here I am smoking and charring 40 pounds of eggplant over real wood coals. Yesterday I carefully seasoned and rubbed and strung 21 legs of young Uruguayan lamb through the tendons in the shank, which will hang here—slowly spinning and roasting à la ficelle all afternoon. Uncharacteristically, I brought with me a veritable entourage: my two sons, the babysitter, and my assistant, but I don’t even know where they are now—probably napping on the beach or spread out around one of the front lounge tables ringing up a healthy tab of mojitos, fried fish, and dulce de leche “volcanoes,” the restaurant’s most popular items. I am sure it’s paradise out there, but I’m in my own utter heaven, here in this hell. I live for this kind of cooking.
We arrived a few days ago, flying all through the night from New York to Montevideo. In the morning, we met up with Gastón Yelicich—my friend, my host, my personal Uruguayan food ambassador, and the chef of Cuatro Mares, in nearby Punta del Este—and drove a couple of hours along the coast to José Ignacio. The buildings and junkyards and repair shops and grocery stores we passed have that uncanny, frozen-in-time characteristic of embargoed Cuba; 50’s-era cars and trucks, ingeniously and repeatedly repaired, still dominate the roads.
But beyond the gritty outskirts of Montevideo, the landscape becomes one of vineyards, grazing sheep, horses, cowboys in full garb galloping along the edge of the road. It is flat but undulating, and has that Montana way of making you unclear where your own body ends and the sky begins.
José Ignacio is just a gas station, a small butcher shop with provisions, a wine store, and a few small shops with well-made, carefully curated, and not-inexpensive things to buy—textiles, jewelry, clothing. Everything you see featured in tasteful shelter magazines is in the architecture. Walls of glass pegged together with eucalyptus timbers. Steel. Poured concrete. Reclaimed wood.
All I had ever read about this small and sleepy place described it as a kind of unimaginably remote impossibility, an unfathomable oasis at the end of the earth. I suspect, though, that anybody who has ever driven out to the Hamptons—to Montauk, with its discreet wealth—will find it not only imaginable, but familiar. The crowd here is all green eyes, good teeth, and heather-gray cashmere.
We pull up to La Huella in the early afternoon, in time for a late, leisurely lunch, and are greeted, professionally but maybe suspiciously, by Guzmán Artagaveytia—one of the three visionary founders of La Huella. He is barefoot. The logo of the restaurant involves a bare footprint in the sand. Huella means “footprint” in Spanish, or “trace.” I don’t need to be told twice; I take off my shoes. We settle around a big wooden table on the veranda, order mojitos, and eat little local fried fish called pejerreyes, octopus with potato, baby squid, and empanadas. When the server raises the question of another round, Gastón explains, reasonably, that we are obliged to have two: “Just one, and you walk lopsided.”
For the next three days, we prep. It’s a hunt the whole time—for the right spoon, the right pot, the space on the counter to work and the space in the walk-in to put our work. For the words in Spanish to describe what I’m looking for. Thank God for Gastón, who was a cook in this kitchen for many years, and who knows everyone here and where everything might be located. Gastón and I meet each morning and go over the long prep lists I have written on big white sheets in jumbo black Sharpie. Gastón always has a few stray short pencils in his pockets—from the golf course—and he pulls one out each day to parcel out the day’s work into his little notebook, in small, gentle handwriting. Every morning he arrives and retrieves me from my cottage, and we come into this bustling prep kitchen and peel tomatoes and pick parsley and sliver garlic and knead bread dough until the work is done.
All day long, complete strangers in fresh clean aprons and warm smiles pause at my cutting board to give me a kiss on the cheek in greeting as they arrive to commence work. Everybody kisses everybody here, and with a daily staff of 40, I joke that they should probably punch in a half-hour early just to say hello properly. On the second day, Marco, my nine-year-old, unexpectedly presents himself in the kitchen, begging me to let him cook. I am dubious. For eight and a half of his nine years, it’s been a tedious dinner hour: buttered pasta with cheese and french fries. And a nightly futility to get him to even clear his own plate. But he pulls his Jim Morrison hair back in an elastic, puts on an apron, washes his hands unbidden, and actually lights up at the 40 pounds of zucchini we place in front of him. For the next silent hour, tucked in the corner, Marco meticulously scrubs down every piece. I put him next in the pastry kitchen to cut tempered chocolate, while the ladies around him serve out hundreds of tempting sundaes and volcanoes. He remains focused, intent on using the knife properly and careful not to transfer the heat of his hands to the fragile chocolate. I am moved to hot tears.
At the end of that long day, the incredibly generous owners of La Huella—Guzmán, Martín Pittaluga, and Gustavo Barbero—arrange a local guide and horses, and they are lined up in the sand with their reins loosely tied to the wooden post outside the restaurant. Almost too tired to accept the kindness, we nonetheless all climb on and giddily ride off into the sunset.
Marco gets dragged right into the tree his horse wants to nibble at, and then raked to the ground by its branches. But my seven-year-old, Leone, roars with daredevil laughter at the feeling of having no control and there are a few brilliant moments when we are all firm in our saddles, at the ocean’s edge, swerving to dodge the foamy surf. The beach is littered with beautiful, small, clear hollow eggs that we cannot fathom; our guide cannot translate. “Caracol?” he shrugs. My kids’ exhilarated shrieks ricochet across the chalky blue sunset, and we come back more alive than when we set out.
Guzmán solves the mystery of the caracol by wiggling his two index fingers up from his head and hunching forward. “He carries his house on his back?” We fall apart in giggles to see Guzmán—graying, etched, restaurant-worn—making such a silly sight. The entourage, all girls, melts at the glimpse of the poorly concealed secret: Guzmán is a big oozy sweetheart under the hard shell. Sea snail.
We are lucky enough to celebrate our last day of prep with a late-afternoon excursion into the countryside for dinner at the five-room hotel and restaurant, El Garzón, owned by Argentine chef Francis Mallmann. Here, finally, there is some tooth to the repeated description of an almost incomprehensible oasis in the middle of nowhere. Only 200 people live in this village. I take an unhurried stroll before dinner. In just a matter of steps, I am at the outskirts, the end, facing nothing but sheep and far-reaching pasture and that vast, holy sky. As Francis had described in an e-mail to me, “It’s on the hills, at the edge of uncertainty. Might you come?”
The town square is a Gabriel García Márquez town square. A plain whitewashed church with a wooden door, and a wooden cross pegged to its façade. A social club with a few chairs outside at the corner. In the park in the center, there is a spigot where a few children stop to drink from their cupped hands. Stray dogs trot around and through.
Inside El Garzón, a fire burns. The exterior is kind of Wild-West-frontier, with its wraparound wooden veranda and thin timbers holding up a rain roof. But the inner courtyard welcomes you with a decidedly Continental silver bowl of chilling champagne. We are invited to sit at a large wooden table in the center of the courtyard and for the next couple of hours, as the sky slowly descends through its blue-green bruise of dusk, we are lavished with the simplest meal, cooked over wood coals, of octopus and beefsteak and zucchini with blistered edges, and spoiled with exceptional Uruguayan wines. As we are finishing the dulce de leche ice cream, the sky turns electric with sharp veins of white lightning and a high wind kicks up. Just as the rain begins to splash down, we make it inside to the salon, where there are daybeds and wide sofas and bookshelves crammed with old volumes of poetry. One more bottle of wine before we head back to José Ignacio.
Starting at midday, the lamb legs spin slowly on their little nooses, the fire crackles behind them. We expect our first reservations around nine o’clock and it’s immediately packed: lively, loud, palpably festive. We have courses of this meal going out from three different kitchens, while the restaurant does its crushing regular dinner service at the same time; it’s insane.
Harry Humpierrez, whom I meet for the first time just as our first ticket is coming in, runs our station—formidably. He speaks as much English as I speak Spanish but the kitchen drill is universal. The tickets roll in. Harry calls them out: “Two lamb, Miss.” “Four more, Madam.” “Seven more lamb, Miss.” I can count in Spanish, but he’s firing the tickets to me in English and I love him for it.
Between one big push and the next, I slip out into the dining room to quickly check on my boys. Leone gushes to me his excitement about his own performance. “Mamma! I ate cow tongue! Mamma! I ate lamb! Mamma! Is this the chocolate Marco made?! I ate it!” I do see, just here and there, some bad Botox and some sequined harem pants among the crowd. But let’s be clear: for all of its barefoot gestalt, La Huella now has valet parking.
The rest of the night, I am rotating the legs, slicing meat, honing my knife. To Harry’s right is Andres, the king of the fire, who earlier in the day devised our system for hanging the lambs, who found the right hooks and the right twine, and staggered their heights and proximity to the fire. Andres expertly shovels our roasted onions and seeded flatbreads into the hot, coal-fired ovens. Together we come to the plates in front of us in the fraternally understood wordless choreography of a busy night on the line. Fourteen tickets deep, I cut into two consecutive legs to find them near-raw at the center. Unthinkingly, I drop a few f-bombs, but Harry is delighted and teaches me the local way to vent. By the time I’ve found two perfectly cooked legs, I’ve learned to call the Virgin Mary a whore in Spanish.
At the end of the night, I take off my apron, wash my face, and thank everyone who helped me—as many handshakes and graciases on the way out as there were kisses on the way in. We have well exceeded our 100 expected covers; Guzmán takes the time to bark, in his gruff way, “Hamilton! Very nice.”
My boys are out—asleep on chairs pushed together to make a bench. It’s almost three in the morning when I ready myself to haul them out of the restaurant. There are a few late revelers out on the porch and the staff is finishing its cleanup; pot smoke wafts out of the staff changing area; a small team of teenagers—heartbreakingly beautiful in their awkward new muscles and khaki shorts—polish glasses back at the dish pit.
The lights glow from the empty, tidy pastry station, the empty grill station, the plates stacked in neat clean readiness for tomorrow. The fire is just warm ash. With smoke and sweat dried into a pleasantly familiar film on my skin, I scoop up a snoozer in my arms and start to the car.
T+L Guide to Uruguayan Food
American Airlines connects through Miami to Montevideo. From there, it’s a two-hour drive to José Ignacio. High season is from December through February.
Playa Vik Modernist seaside retreat with contemporary-art-filled casitas. José Ignacio.$$$$
Posada del Faro 15-room hotel with private terraces overlooking the beach. José Ignacio.$$$
Cuatro Mares Capitán Miranda y 2 de Febrero, Punta del Este; 598/4244-8916.$$$
Airbnb announced this week that it reached an agreement with the New York Attorney General, after the state office issued a second subpoena demanding data on thousands of Airbnb hosts.
In this latest update to the long saga of New York State vs. Airbnb, the short-term apartment rental website will hand over anonymized data of its hosts, giving the Attorney General's Office one year to review the information.
Manhattanites, rejoice! After a seemingly endless winter, Hamptons season is officially upon us again as Memorial Day Weekend approaches. For 2014, there’s plenty of new places to try on Long Island’s famed stretch of beachy vacation towns, whether you’re seeking fine dining or luxurious accommodations from Southampton to Montauk. Of course there’s also classic favorites we can’t miss, like getting our last ever lobster roll from Duryea’s and sipping cocktails at Surf Lodge while watching live sunset concerts. Pour the rosé and let the good times roll.
What’s old is new again at Gurney’s Montauk Resort and Seawater Spa. First opened in 1926, the iconic hotel has added 38 brand new luxury guestrooms with private verandas and floor to ceiling windows for fantastic ocean views. They’re also redone the restaurant and spa, adding the only seawater swimming pool in North America. At the Crow’s Nest overlooking Lake Montauk, hotelier Sean MacPherson has added the David Pharaoh Cottages in addition to the 14 king rooms. The cottages come with kitchenettes and are available in sizes from studios to three bedrooms.
The new bespoke travel company Beck & Score—which counts NBA all-star Steve Nash as a partner—is making it possible to travel to this summer’s World Cup in class. Created with the well-heeled sports lover in mind, it offers VIP packages to Brazil that start at $8,000 per person, including tickets to games, stays at stylish properties such as Hotel Fasano, transportation, dinner reservations, and even face time with Nash and pro surfer Garrett McNamara.
Follow a woman’s incredible 1,700 mile, solo journey through the Australian outback in the upcoming film, Tracks.
In 1977, Robyn Davidson made a 1,700-mile trek across the deserts of Western Australian with her dog and four camels. Davidson had no intention of documenting her adventures until she eventually agreed to write about her trip in National Geographic magazine.
Berkshire Hathaway is shaking up the travel insurance industry with the launch of AirCare, which offers an inexpensive, fixed-rate plan covering delays, tarmac waits, missed connections, and lost or delayed luggage. But more than its $25 price, the latest from Warren Buffett’s corporation stands out because it streamlines the biggest insurance headache of all: filing claims.
Spaghetti, tortellini, gnochetti, fusilli—they tell the story of Italy.
I learned my pasta basics decades ago from an old woman named Filomena. Learned them reluctantly. Witchlike Filomena with her chin whiskers and shrill cackle was my landlady in Assisi where, as a young piano student, I took summer master classes. “Sei ritornata?”—You’re back?—she’d screech when I tiptoed in after a date. She’d then perch on my bed, waving a crucifix, and berate me about my morals. Going out became such a drag that I would spend evenings at home watching her cook.
Filomena didn’t make fancy pasta with black Umbrian truffles. Mostly we ate that elemental linguine with garlic and oil and a weekend ragù fortified with some pork bones. But she cooked with such spare elegance that I still retain the indelible image of her scrupulously removing garlic cloves from the sizzling oil—lest it turn bitter—and her conviction that an extra speck of pepperoncino was grounds to call the carabinieri. Years before discovering Marcella Hazan, I learned to simmer the sugo di pomodoro exactly until the oil separates. Learned that basil should be torn, never offended with the blade of the knife. That the sugo should veil each strand of pasta just so...and that a splash of the cooking water from pasta alchemically binds sauce and starch.
Three buzz-worthy new cruises from Oceania, Celebrity, and Princess are plying the Mediterranean. But which one is right for you? Read on for the breakdown.
Ancient cliff-side villages, artisanal food, history at every turn...there’s more than one reason almost 20 percent of global cruise itineraries sail the Med. Though all three of these ships distill the best of the region in their ports of call, each brings its own offerings to the table—including restaurants and art to rival what you’ll find on land.
Number of Passengers: 1,250.
Great For: Food and culture cognoscenti.
Interiors: With its marble lobby and grand staircase inset with Lalique crystal medallions, Riviera feels like a luxury condo. In the staterooms, you’ll find 1,000-thread-count bedding and bathrooms equipped with that all-too-rare cruise amenity: a full-size tub. (It’s not your average bubble bath, either. The pink bath crystals are made from 250 million-year-old Himalayan salt.)