Crumbling colonial buildings and beaten-up Chevrolets. Cigar vendors and nighthawks strolling around Habana Vieja (Old Havana), bottles of beer in hand. Tourists eating smoked corn on the cob while gawping as Havana’s vintage taxis drive by at a decades-old speed.
And music… There is music everywhere. The marriage of Afro beats and Spanish melodies is heard in restaurants, hotels, clubs and through the loudspeakers on the shoulders of men hauling them around.
Communism, locals and tourists say, is the perfect breeding ground for art. “Why become a doctor when I can make the same money as an artist and have more fun?” a musician asks. In the Cuban capital, the weekend starts on Thursday. At night people don’t just stand, they dance. Habaneros may still not have much in the way of material comfort, but they do know how to shimmy and whoop it up from the afternoon till the early morning.
4.30pm
Sinking your teeth into a lemon cake or slurping on large scoops of gelato in Cafe Bohemia’s sizeable courtyard – it opens up to the sixteenth-century La Plaza Vieja – is a beloved pastime. The owners of the cafe are Cuban and Italian with an interesting past. Manager Annalisa Gallina followed her brother (and the cafe’s owner) to Havana after her Cuban sister-in-law predicted “Habana Vieja’s future is pink”. Staff members at the bi-cultural cafe, which is loyal to its Mediterranean roots, bake the bread it uses for its acclaimed sandwiches and rely only on local, organic and seasonal produce.
Cafe Bohemia
San Ignacio No 364 (enter between Muralla and Teniente Rey), Habana Vieja havanabohemia.com
5pm
Cuba is the birthplace of the classic rum-based cocktails, mojitos and daiquiris (although the Puerto Ricans might have something to say about the origins of the former), but at restaurant/bar El del Frente it’s reinvented gin cocktails that are on a different level. “You should try this – it’s really good!” exclaims one patron. She is pointing to an Emilito, a riff on a pina colada made with gin and sprinkled with chilli. The bartender proposes a Michelada, which is a concoction of tomato, chilli, pickles and other “secret ingredients”. There are hot daiquiris, too, made with gin, pepper mango and cashews. Best of all, you can savour all these at the rooftop bar. Just head to the top of the stairs, where you’ll pass a poster of the late Princess Diana.
6pm
In the 1950s, a number of young Cubans decided that instead of performing salsa in a typical back-and-forth motion, they would spin each other round in a rotating fashion. And so Cuban salsa was born. This idiosyncratic dance has been demonstrated at a cosy, rustic restaurant called La Reliquia for a few years now. You can feast on Cuban dishes like the lamb roja vieja then take free salsa lessons from Randy, who also manages the place. “My mum taught me how to dance the salsa,” he says. “That’s how Cubans learn to dance.”
La Reliquia
Ignacio 260D, Esquina Amargura, Habana Vieja
7pm
The Malecón is an eight-kilometre esplanade that encompasses a six-lane roadway, seawall and extensive footpath, all running along the Havana coast. Stretching through the colonial centre of Old Havana to the Vedado neighbourhood, the Malecón is the sort of place you’ll find people strolling, jogging, fishing, tanning or just daydreaming while devouring the infinite azure of the Caribbean Sea. Whatever you decide to do – although a stroll is highly recommended – the Fellini-esque assortment of street vendors will interrupt your bliss. Young men will attempt to sell you planchao (rum), chicharitas platano (banana chips) and granisado (ice with sweet syrup), while women will try to lure you with flowers and teddy bears. “Don’t forget to visit the plaza,” says Isangel, a young man, who – no doubt – often visits the Malecón in pursuit of romantic encounters. It’s at its best as the sun is falling below the horizon, colouring the waves of Havana Bay rich shades of gold and orange.
8pm
Privately owned paladares (restaurants) were once illegal in Cuba – today they are not only allowed but increasingly popular, too. Imagine eating grilled fish or Caribbean prawn casserole in a room where Barack Obama, Mick Jagger and Beyoncé have all dined. In 2010, the owner of San Cristóbal, Carlos Cristóbal Márquez Valdés, decided to transform the century-old house he’d inherited from his grandmother into a restaurant, and was delighted to greet the Spanish ambassador as his first client. Such is Valdés’ fascination with VIPs, his paladar has both an Obama table and a Jesus table (we’re fairly sure he never dined there, but the table is located near his statue). Don’t be surprised if you find yourself accepting the offer of a cigar and 15-year-old rum from a smiling waiter at the end of your meal.
San Cristobal
San Rafael No 469 (enter between
Lealtad and Campanario), Centro Habana
9.30pm
In the business district of Vedado, don’t be surprised if you’re met by a seemingly endless queue. “The place to be,” says one local. “Todos los artes in el mismo espacio,” she continues, having switched to Spanish. She’s saying how all art is assembled in one space at FAC (Fábrica de Arte). This building has been turned into a modern creative labyrinth separated into five areas, some exhibiting fine arts and jewellery while others host fashion shows and live music. There’s always something on, but all the events are listed on the website’s calendar.
11.30pm
Cuban trovadores (itinerant musicians) have relied on their guitars and artistic sensitivity to deliver emotion-charged tunes since the mid-1800s. To see their modern counterparts play, head to La Bombilla Verde. In a darkened, austere apartment with a small bar and terrace, aspiring musicians from across the country serenade guests enjoying tapas and well-priced cocktails. The players like to share with the audience the story behind the songs between melodies, somehow making the experience seem more like a reunion between old friends than a performance.
La Bombilla Verde
Calle 11 No 905 (enter between 6 and 8), Vedado
1am
Fans of the dark and decadent should consider themselves lucky if they get to experience what Habaneros say is the city’s best-kept secret. They call it Elegguá, but most travellers know the same place as the Conga Room. It’s what you might label an underground venue, except that it’s located on the first floor of a residential building. To gain entry, you’ll need to acquire a flyer on the street – although the few people handing out these cherished pieces of paper are rather selective. The prize should you receive one? Rumberos with machetes and knives who will transport you to the depths of the Santería religion and Afro-Cuban folklore. Worry not: you will survive.
The Conga Room
Aguiar #209 (enter between Tejadillo and Empedrado), Habana Vieja
My boots feel two sizes too small. Coarse sand invades my shoes, painfully constricting my feet. Fighting the urge to look up, I focus on stomping with each step to help with grip. Namib is not only the oldest desert in the world but it also has the highest dunes, and I’m halfway up Big Daddy, the highest dune in the Sossusvlei area. Standing at 325 metres tall, it towers over a sea of sand mountains and is deceptively hard to climb.
My laboured breathing is amplified in my ears, my strained calves burn and sweat stings my eyes. Each exhausting step sinks backwards, making progress slow. The footsteps of those who’ve gone before me imprint the ridgeline like vertebrae winding steeply up to the pinnacle.
Finally, at the top, I absorb the enormity of the endless rust-hued dunes. Climbers beginning the ascent far below are mere specks, like ants exploring a kids’ sandpit. The rising sun lights the front dune faces, while the opposite sides remain in shadow. The contrast accentuates the precise rims and curves, as if a ribbon has been frozen mid-twirl.
The area’s drawcard is Deadvlei, a lake bed of stark white clay dotted with fossilised 900-year-old camel thorn trees. Big Daddy looms over it, so we decide to take the shortcut in. My guide Richard and I giggle at each other’s slow-motion astronaut walk down the steep bowl of the dune. Our steps create lava-like momentum, pushing us down effortlessly. With its sticky combo of sand and sunscreen, my skin resembles a sugared donut. The dark forest sculptures are striking against the saturated hues of the red dunes, vivid blue sky and crackled white ground.
Kulala Desert Lodge is a 45-minute drive away, thanks mainly due to rough off-road terrain. A line of 23 kulalas (it means ‘place to sleep’ in Swahili) sits between the dunes and Naukluft Mountains. With moulded clay huts camouflaged in a barren landscape of rock and sand, the camp resembles the Flintstone village. By mid-morning the stifling desert heat coupled with a stiff breeze creates an atmosphere a little like the interior of a fan-forced oven.
The constant winds make flying in quite the adventure. Wilderness Safaris operates a fleet of small aircraft and they’re ferrying me to four camps across Namibia. I make it to the Kulala airstrip on a plane no bigger than a minivan. The turbulence is epic. I check my seatbelt for the fourth time, but each air pocket causes my butt and the seat to break contact. This is not a mode of transportation for the faint of heart, but the vast distances can only be conquered by air.
Leaving behind the ocean of scalloped dunes, I next fly to northwest Damaraland along a coastline cloaked by low-lying cloud. The tiny dirt airstrip is barely detectable as we weave down through peaks of the Etendeka Plateau, distinct because they look as though they’ve been lopped off by a chainsaw. The scenery, with the ground layered with rubble and boulders, resembles the surface of the moon.
Desert Rhino Camp has eight tents spread around a communal hub. Aside from the canvas walls, there is little else that resembles a typical canvas abode. A queen bed overlooks 270-degree views and the shower has a private outlook.
As its name suggests, this camp revolves around the critically endangered desert-adapted black rhino, with 90 per cent of the world’s remaining population living primarily in northwest Namibia. Opened as a joint venture between Wilderness Safaris and Save The Rhino Trust, the camp has an unfenced 300,000-hectare concession with 16 rhino regulars calling it home. On the black market, the species’ horn fetches a staggering US$60,000 a kilo, so each of the residents here has been dehorned for its own protection.
We’re up at 5.30am and the trackers get a head start detecting any morning activity, while we hang back in the jeep awaiting further instruction. Two trackers follow the riverbed on foot, assessing tracks and dung for recent visitors. They can expertly decipher fresh imprints and identify the sex from how the dung has been spread. Several hours pass before we get the signal to accompany them. Walking single file between the trackers, it’s a mission to keep up. My ankles bow painfully with each unstable step. It feels as if I’m clumsily navigating across a field of tomboller marbles.
We spot a skittish young female, called Nane12, trotting near a hillside. She pauses regularly to stare us down. Since she’s known to be a little cantankerous, we keep our distance. It feels instinctively wrong to stand, unarmed and far from a safety vehicle, exposed to an animal weighing a tonne. Later we have a lucky second encounter with Don’t Worry, a 28-year-old male who has certainly taken his name to heart. When we join him on the riverbed, he’s only 70 metres away. This prehistoric-looking creature seems cobbled together with leftover pieces from the animal production line. He carries a hippo frame, splayed elephant feet, pug-like excess skin folds, cute bear ears and a flimsy rat’s tail, all capped off with a face that weirdly resembles ET. He’s definitely seen us but continues to swagger along, seemingly content with our company.
In the morning, all the staff members gather to farewell me in song. The Damara click dialect is a poetic flow of foreign words punctuated by pops and clucks. I have no idea what they are singing, but I could listen to it all day. The collective strength of the voices makes for an emotional send-off, and I’m still thinking about it as we clear dung piles and shoo animals from the runway. This time we’re taking off on a three-flight skip to Hoanib Skeleton Coast Camp, my northernmost destination.
This oasis is a pinprick on the vast remote desert. The unique design of the camp – stretched sail roofs shaped into abstract waves – is visually striking against the apocalyptic setting. Within the tents, there’s a designer beach-house vibe, but I’m soon distracted from the luxe fit-out when a procession of six elephants approaches a waterhole right outside my window. Unpacking is abandoned as I watch them, their trunks curling and scooping refreshment into their mouths then spraying it over their backs. Light grey skin darkens and mottles before the elephants douse themselves with a cooling coat of dirt. The dexterity and capability of their trunks is mesmerising.
These are not the camp’s only four-legged visitors. Standard camp rules dictate you must be accompanied by a guide after dark, but, just as we’re about to head to dinner, I’m told we must instead jump in the jeep for what would be a 30-second walk. Headlights reflect eyes in the dark, quickly exposing two thirsty lionesses cutting through camp to the waterhole.
It’s a five-hour drive to the infamous Skeleton Coast, although expedition might be a more suitable description. The dry Hoanib River provides a natural highway snaking west, its towering banks of compacted sand resembling a rock canyon. The smooth ride ends as the tyres enter deep dirt troughs and thick saltbush. Driver Reagan swerves erratically through the tight course, noisily scraping the paintwork as we go. After a quick pit stop to let air out of the tyres, we hit the dunes. Kilometres of sand smother the mountains, with just a few peaks emerging. Reagan manhandles the steering to straighten up after the vehicle fishtails. As the jeep tilts on the steep, soft slopes it feels borderline reckless. Three attempts are needed to gain enough momentum to conquer one monster dune. During an insane vertical drop, Reagan cuts the engine and we simply slide down.
Our first sighting of Mowe Bay is a welcome one. The Skeleton Coast is famous for the shipwrecks buried along the shoreline, but most are much further south. Here, however, the desecrated carnage of the Suiderkus is strewn across the rocks, showing how savage this stretch of ocean can be.
Lunch is set right on the pebbled beach beside the pounding waves. This has to be rated as one of the world’s hardest-to-reach restaurants. Fortunately there is a shortcut home. A 10-minute scenic flight offers an unbeatable perspective of the tiny trail we’d earlier cut through the infinite landscape.
Heading inland, Ongava Tented Camp is my final destination. Ongava is a 30,000-hectare private reserve bordering the renowned Etosha National Park. After days of muted tones and few signs of life, the dense mopane scrub is a jolt to the senses. My guide, Shilongo, takes me out at sunrise, which is primetime for observing herds of zebra, impala and wildebeest grazing in the open. He brakes suddenly thanks to a telltale sign. The animals have stopped eating and are staring in the same direction. As we wait, anticipating a visitor, the congregation becomes increasingly agitated, snorting and huffing in alarm. Panic ensues as dozens of impala sprint out of the thicket. A minute later two lionesses saunter into the clearing and pad towards the animals. The snorting becomes frenzied as the predators get tantalisingly close. The prey scatters and the defeated lionesses turn to us as if questioning where the hunt went wrong.
Completely unfazed by human companionship, they let us trail only metres behind as they repeat this flawed but fascinating hunting exercise. These inexperienced youngsters clearly have no chance of breakfast. We cheer when they finally slink off in order to try an ambush. But they get sidetracked, tackling each other to the ground.
Playful growls escalate into an outburst of guttural grunts. We follow the lions into the bush to find a pride of 13 reuniting as if it’s Christmas Day. It’s an affectionate tangle of bodies rubbing and intertwining. With the temperature rising, lounge mode kicks in. Cubs knead mum’s belly as they guzzle milk, adolescents intently lick their paws, elders doze. These oversized felines display such familiar behaviour it’s easy to forget the threat that lies within patting distance.
Ongava means rhino in the Otjiherero language and, here, black rhinos are known to charge jeeps. Thankfully, you can instead walk with the much larger white rhino. Nearing sunset, we leave the vehicle behind to accompany a mother and baby. They see us but are seemingly unperturbed, although Mum constantly manoeuvres herself between us and the inquisitive youngster. Shilongo quietly sets up a sundowner picnic on the jeep bonnet. As I sip a Savanna cider, we’re joined by yet another pair. Four enormous rhinos are so close that each bite they take while grazing is audible as grass is ripped and chewed. You couldn’t ask for better company during a final Namibian sunset.
Despite its famed evergreen reputation, and Hollywood-represented history, Norfolk Island is somewhat of an enigma. As I board the plane from Sydney to the tiny 35-kilometre-square island in the South Pacific, I’ve convinced myself I’m about to enter a real-life production of Bachelor in Paradise, just in time for Valentine’s Day.
The first thing I notice about Norfolk Island, aside from the shed-like airport, is the thickness of the air. It’s February and the subtropical climate of the island, situated 1500 kilometres east of Brisbane, is certainly delivering the humidity. The weather is milder than expected, but I’m sweating profusely and the sapphire blue waters that surround the cliff-framed cost are looking rather appealing.
A crowd of locals stands metres away behind a cream fence, waving vigorously at arrivals and preparing farewells for the departing. Everyone seems to know each other, but what would you expect of an island that has a population wavering around 2000? Through the noise, I identify wataweih and whatawee as the main greetings and I make a mental note for my future grand finale.
Rose Evans is my guide for the day and I take careful note of landmarks as she drives around grassy bends and over steep undulations. But with famed Norfolk pine trees deepening the hue of endless sweeping pasture I quickly lose my landmarks. The landscape is far less tropical than I had imagined, which I later learn is the result of one of the earlier settlements where overgrown tropics were replaced with pastoral lands. It looks like a quaint UK countryside village, with the weather you’d expect of a subtropical island.
A brief introduction to World Heritage-listed Kingston, the blue lagoon of Emily Bay, the thrashing waters of Slaughter Bay and the town centre eventually ends at my private beach-house accommodation at Coast. From my deck, the blue skies are starting to scatter with grey clouds that threaten rain but never deliver, mocking the locals who are awaiting the end of a near-catastrophic drought. Not that you could tell by the landscapes that are hypnotizingly green. Through the pine trees, I spy the varying blues of the ocean and its surrounding reef, the source of many ships’ end.
Over dinner at Hilli’s Restaurant, Rose tells me how she came to call the isolated island home. As a young Queenslander, she holidayed on Norfolk Island and fell in love with the place and a local. Shortly after, she moved and has been here ever since. I’d soon come to learn this romantic tale isn’t unusual in this part of the world, and my hope for a paradise ceremony strengthens.
A Pinetree’s orientation tour is my half-day introduction to the island’s main sights. Along with my fellow grey-haired explorers, I listen as Max, our guide, rattles off fascinating island facts. For instance, the phone book uses locals’ nicknames rather than their surnames, there are no snakes or spiders here, and cattle and birds are the main fauna. I’m thrilled to learn about the absence of deadly critters we’re so used to in other parts of Australia.
“The language is 227 years old,” Max explains of Norfuk, a combination of old English and Tahitian. “It was created by some men who stole a ship, picked up their friends, settled on an island where they burnt their ship then couldn’t speak to one another.”
His dry sense of humour gets mixed responses on the bus, which is as entertaining as his stories that have me in fits of giggles. But Max makes it very clear there’s one conversation he won’t have on his tour – politics. The previously self-governed island came under Australian Government rule in 2017 and it’s still a touchy topic.
Instead, Max recites the historical tale I’ll hear multiple times over the coming days. It’s a fascinating narrative featuring ancient Polynesian seafarers, First Fleet farm lands, brutal convict settlements and a famous mutiny.
A similar discourse is delivered at a traditional sunset fish fry, during the Pinetrees’ Sound and Light Show where costumed players enact the horrifying days of the convict era, and again as I’m wandering the cemetery on a ghost tour.
I’m transfixed by the islanders’ unwavering script on the HMS Bounty mutiny, which in 1789 saw Fletcher Christian and eight other crewmen overthrow and set adrift Lieutenant William Bligh and 18 other men. The mutineers then returned to Tahiti to reunite with the women with whom they’d “fallen in love” before eventually heading to Pitcairn Island. There they set the ship ablaze and stayed for 20 years. By 1808, all of them, apart from John Adams, had been killed by each other or their Polynesian ‘loves’. Finally, in 1856, Queen Victoria granted Norfolk Island to Adams and the women and children who remained. When I question the story, drawing comparisons to other accounts of less gentlemanly behaviour during the British Empire’s history of invasions, one local offers a dismissive forced smile. And while my journalistic curiosity has me wanting to dig deeper into the romance of this story, I have a fond admiration for the pride the Norfolk nation has in their history.
It’s at this point I decide to join a Kingston ghost tour. Thanks to the island’s violent penal past, Norfolk is considered one of the world’s most haunted islands, and this has the attention of my inner woo-woo transfixed. Being a sceptical believer, I join the group with a lantern, an open mind, some garlic and a pinch of salt, hoping to hear fascinating stories but not expecting any actual ghosts. Accompanied by the sound of crashing waves, we move through the cemetery and past headstones etched with stories of murders, drownings and untimely deaths. I catch myself smirking when a guest questions a shadow (caused by a tree) in the distance, but tighten my grip on my black tourmaline crystal and soundlessly recite, “Please don’t follow me home, please don’t follow me home” in a bid to repel spirits.
It’s said a large number of the Norfolk’s spirits hang out around Kingston’s main street, Quality Row, and its elegant official houses. But it’s the duplex that catches my attention. As we park opposite, the bus fills with whispers and apprehension. We’re told about the house’s dark past, and some people choose to stay where they are. I spend my time ensuring I’m surrounded by living people, but eventually freak out and refuse to enter the servants’ quarters. Whether it’s anxiety or the supernatural, I’m convinced the building has evil juju. I let out a hushed giggle when a man jumps because he catches his son’s shadow while taking a photo; another when a woman, who is standing near a window without glass, quietens the group to ask if anyone else felt the “chill in the air” that “ran across” her skin. When I return to my cabin, I fall asleep with the light on.
Done with ghost and history hunting, I’m determined to pursue some nature-based adventures. Heading to Emily Bay, I meet with Jay Barker from Permanent Vacations who’s taking me on a snorkelling tour of the reef. The conditions look a little choppy, and my heart rate increases when Jay tells me we’ll start the tour at aptly named Slaughter Bay. I flipper up and dive in. The water is warm and, while the waves are strong, the reef is soon in view and my initial nerves dissipate. The crackling of the ocean is calming, the coral vibrant and the fish flourishing. Wrasse and blue trevally swim by, while rare Aatuti fish show their colours as the bullies of the bay. It’s without a doubt one of the liveliest reefs I’ve ever set goggles on.
Three hours pass before we pop up for a break. The ripples on the water are lit by the sun, while Lone Pine, which has been here for as long as anyone can remember, stands tall on Point Hunter in the distance. I’m breathless from both battling the current of Slaughter Bay and the inspiring landscape.
With the tide coming in and my skin starting to wrinkle, Jay offers to take me to some rock pools by Anson Bay on the northwest side of the island. Barefooted, I walk up a narrow sandy path and find a rope tied to a tree. “Hold on to this and pull yourself up,” Jay instructs as I start to wish I hadn’t bailed on the past two months of personal training. At the top of the climb, there’s a narrow goat track leading to more ropes, a side-stepping cliff edge and vertical track to the water. I don’t make it all the way down and, in a bid to hide my fear, dub it a good vantage point for photos. As we make our way back to the top of Anson Bay, I kick myself for not going further and vow to come back and tackle the rock pools in the future.
When I wake up the following morning, with muscles stiffer than a log of pine, I’m grateful to have a day free to explore in a Mini Moke. It’s Valentine’s Day so I enlist Jay to be my lunch date and navigator. We walk from the peak of Mount Pitt to Mount Bates, the highest point of the island, where the tropical landscape I had expected is thriving, then settle in at 100 Acres Reserve for a lunch prepared earlier by Picnic in Paradise. Surrounded by the sounds of black noddy terns and white terns nesting nearby, it’s not quite a scene from Bachelor in Paradise, but I feel totally at peace here, and not in a woo-woo ghost kind of way. A session at Serenity Day Spa and homemade pasta from Dino’s at Bumboras, a restaurant run from the owner’s home, built in the late 1800s, is a fitting end to the day.
Early the next morning, a symphony of cows mooing and white terns cacawing forces me from my slumber. A rooster sounds its alarm, crowing a good morning chant to the rising sun. The sun is shining through the window, dulled only slightly by the sheer curtains. The breeze pushes its way through the screen door, filling my room with the briny smell of the ocean. I wrap my hands around a cup of tea and step onto the deck for one last view of the pastoral lands and Pacific blues. I may not have uncovered all the mysteries hidden beneath the Norfolk pines and between the haunted buildings, or found myself the recipient of a bloom at a red-rose ceremony, but beyond its museums and mesmerising sweeping landscapes, this patch of land in the South Pacific has more adventure than a lone traveller could ask for.
It is dangerously easy to let the night slip away in Madrid. The Spanish capital celebrates those hours between when the sun sets and rises again with a kind of fervour.
Whatever happens do not fight the call of the city, which wants to pull you into its history of eating and drinking like an old friend who hasn’t seen you in years. Raise that glass, choose some tapas and let Madrid take control. There’s no way you will end the night disappointed.
5pm
The night is long in Madrid, so as the afternoon lingers it’s best to start yourself off with a good base of food and drink. It’s a case of choose your own adventure at Mercado San Miguel. This cavernous carnival of food and drink offers a traditional ambience but with tastes modernised for today’s dynamic palates. Upon entering you’re accosted by diet-killing delights on all sides. Cured meats, plump seafood, luscious fruit, vats of olives and decadent pastries are displayed at beautifully presented stalls, while at other stands you can stop to eat paella and tapas and sip frosty glasses of white wine. Drift with the current of the crowd as you set the tone for the night.
6.30pm
By now the sun is getting ready to set, and there is no better place to put the day to rest than at the Ginkgo Sky Bar atop the VP Plaza España Design hotel. This ultra-fabulous lounge, restaurant and music venue has panoramic views of the Royal Palace, Almudena Cathedral and other landmarks you simply can’t get anywhere else. The only competition faced by the vista is the bar itself – from its faceted mirrored ceiling to the tropical vertical garden surrounding the bottles, there’s plenty to catch the eye. The signature cocktail blends gin, Fino de Jerez, pink pepper tonic water, shiso leaves and lemon grass. You might find yourself wanting to stay for the live music and DJs, but come back later if you must.
8pm
Tear yourself away from the heavens and descend to the bohemian depths where the hip Chamberí and Salamanca neighbourhoods meet. Here, in the epicentre of cool, you’ll find a miniature Brunswick minus the hipsters and matcha tea shops. Artist, designers and musicians fill the streets, as do little tiendas – Magro Cardona with its handmade shoes is a case in point – that exist nowhere else in the world. All that window shopping can build up an appetite, so hit Casa Macareno. The energy in this white, bright taverna is electric as locals begin to fuel their evenings with vino tinto, house-cured meats, anchovies, patatas bravas and golden cod croquettes.
9.30pm
While it’s the south of Spain that is best known for flamenco, there is one institution in Madrid that does it in spectacular fashion. Corral de la Moreria is home to the most talented, authentic and powerful dancers the world has to offer, and their epic shows change every eight days (just in case you’re going to be hanging around the city for a while). Here, the dancers perform the flamenco of the streets accompanied by musicians who are at the top of their game. It’s possible to book here for dinner and a show, but with so much more to do simply buy a show-only ticket to witness the dancing.
11pm
Cut across Plaza Mayor and head towards Cava de San Miguel, a street that appears to have been frozen in time. Patrons bubble out onto the footpath from ancient tapas and wine bars. Bar El Gallego is a good place to start, but it’s best to bounce from one hole in the wall to the next until ending up at the granddaddy of them all, Sobrino de Botín. With its gold-leaf interior, wine catacombs and heritage – it opened in 1725 and is the oldest continually operating restaurant in the world – it’s quite the experience. Don’t come for the spectacle or its pedigree though. Here, it’s all about the suckling pig, especially if you’re into food that will change your life.
12.30am
If you are looking for a traditional experience then a stroll through Barrio de las Letras is a must. This was once the home of Cervantes, the great Spanish author of Don Quixote. Look down and you’ll see his legacy, as well as that of other writers from Spain’s Golden Age of literature – on some footpaths their prose is rendered in gold lettering. Here, like a modern-day Sancho Panza, you can bounce from bar to bar, striking up conversations with locals and travellers, on your quest for the greatest Spanish experience ever. While one outpost is as magical as another here, a seat outside on Plaza de Santa Ana offers up the kind of people-watching extravaganza sure to inspire the poet deep inside of you. There are tiki drinks at Bar Hawaiano Muana-Loa and classic cocktails at Lateral Santa Ana, but at this time of night you might be ready to knock back something simpler. An ice-cold draft beer, perhaps? Cervecería Alemana opened in 1904 when a posse of German brewers decided to bring their skills to Madrid. A local family eventually took the place over, but not much, including the bow-tied waiters, has changed. It still serves a good range of Spanish beers best drunk at one of those tables on the plaza.
2am
It’s now well past the witching hour, so it’s time to head underground. Salmon Guru is where those in the know meet beneath the neon. You may have to wait a hot minute to get inside, but once in you will be treated to the most inventive and delicious drinks in the whole city. Some come encased in eggshells you must break; others in glass domes filled with smoke. Diego Cabrera is the man in charge of mixing and his work has seen the venue hit the World’s 50 Best Bars list.
3am
By now, if you are still standing, you need to dance it out. If it’s Monday you’re definitely in luck because there is simply no better place to do that than Fucking Monday. This temple to debauchery has a vast dance floor, rows of bars and even a slick lounge upstairs that hosts an all-night beer pong tournament. Here you’ll discover the kind of fun that can make you want to keep partying, fuelled by cheap drinks and the crowd’s fierce energy, right through till dawn.
Traversing the world and riding roller-coasters with the aim of finding the ultimate thrill seems like one of those jobs that’s a bit unreal – in the same category as astronaut, trampoline tester or ice-cream auditor. In other words, Brady MacDonald has landed a fairytale job most can only dream of.
Yes, for work, he gets to travel and research theme parks, ride on roller-coasters and write about them for his Los Angeles Times blog, Funland. MacDonald, it seems, is a man on the scent of permanent fun – if there are any changes, innovations or upcoming spectacles in the theme park world, he knows about them.
MacDonald’s dedication to scouting out pleasure is impressive to say the least. During one 10-day family holiday to Ohio, Pennsylvania and New Jersey, he, his wife Nancy and daughter Hannah visited 10 theme parks and rode 100 roller-coasters. While it sounds like the holiday to end all holidays, he admits it was an exhausting venture, especially considering the family’s roller-coaster road trip coincided within a 40°C heatwave. “I have a very wonderful family who was willing to do that,” he concedes.
The road MacDonald has travelled to becoming a theme park guru is unexpected to say the least. Not aspiring to be a roller-coaster expert, he first studied English and journalism at the Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond. Drawn to the allure of the printed word, he began working for the college newspaper and was hooked. Lurking underneath, however, lay a desire to become a good old-fashioned rock star.
Caught up in the hey-day of 80s glam metal, once he had finished studying he ventured from Richmond to Los Angeles in 1989 to pursue his dream.
When becoming a rock star didn’t quite go to plan – “it requires an all or nothing dedication that I lacked as a gainfully employable college graduate” – MacDonald fell back on journalism and landed a job with the Los Angeles Times.
The idea for Funland came 10 years later when his editors were scouting for new blog themes. MacDonald pitched multiple ideas, all of which were met with rejection. In a last-ditch attempt, he came up with two more ideas. One focussed on beer, the other was a blog about theme parks.
The editors passed on the beer blog for the sound, yet disappointing reasoning that the Los Angeles Times wasn’t going to pay a man to drink cold beverages. Somewhat surprisingly, perhaps, his suggestion to write about rides got the nod, and now MacDonald is a leading authority on white-knuckle thrills.
It’s an enviable position. “Every time I write a story, I get to take a little virtual mental vacation to whatever park or whatever ride I’m writing about and imagine that one day I’ll get to ride on it or visit the park,” Brady explains. You see, although he gets to journey to a lot of different places, sometimes stories about upcoming openings or trends in the industry are researched and interviews conducted while sitting at a desk. But even when working in the office the fun for MacDonald doesn’t evaporate – it merely changes. When he’s reading or writing about a thrilling ride, he gets to do something most of us would envy – he revisits the childlike energy adventure parks draw out of us.
Brady’s flirtation with roller-coastering began as a teenager at Kings Dominion, an amusement park in Doswell, Virginia, with its Grizzly wooden roller-coaster. Back then, going to theme parks was an excuse to be with his friends. “Now that I’m older I hate waiting in lines at theme parks,” he says, “but back then it was fun because you got to hang out and chat with your friends all day.”
Most of MacDonald’s work is located in the States – there are 852 roller-coasters plummeting around the country – although he has ventured to Spain and France on the hunt for a thrill ride. In his career, he estimates he’s strapped himself in to somewhere between 500 and 1000 rides. Out of those, he pinpoints two as the finest the roller-coaster world has to offer: Harry Potter and the Escape from Gringotts and Harry Potter and the Forbidden Journey, both located at Universal Orlando’s Islands of Adventure. Like Universal Studios’ offering, the best amusement parks are the ones with a theme, MacDonald explains. Places like Hersheypark, Walt Disney World’s Magic Kingdom and Knott’s Berry Farm, which has five themed areas, are perfect examples of this.
In the future, Brady and Nancy, a restaurant reporter for the Orange County Register, want to combine their talents to create the ultimate travel career. Their writing skills and experience in tourism and hospitality will, hopefully, allow them to journey to amusement parks and restaurants around the world and create a leading family travel blog.
Although it’s on his list, MacDonald is yet to visit Australia. “Hopefully one day we can go to Australia and hit up a few of the parks out there,” he says. But with only 28 roller-coasters on offer, we may have to lift our fun park game.
Now I feel that I should warn you in advance: this story is going to be about Christianity & history. If you want to turn the page now, then please do – I won’t be insulted. After all before I went to Ethiopia I probably would have done the same damn thing.
But then, before I went to Ethiopia I had the same jaded view of the place that most people do. Band Aid might have saved a lot of lives a bunch of years ago, but it has really coloured the perceptions of a whole civilisation.
“Feeeed the world – do they know its Christmas time” Well yes, actually they bloody do. The Ethiopian royal family traced their lineage back to a liaison between the Queen of Sheba and King Solomon. Hailie Selassie – the last Emperor and revered by Rastafarians – was believed to be 155 in line from this regal meeting. The first in line was credited in some quarters as bringing back the Ark of the Covenant from the Holy Land, to Axum in the north of the country. Ethiopia itself adopted Christianity in the fourth century AD (as opposed to having it foisted upon them by missionaries during the colonial scramble for Africa in the Victorian era). So, yes, I think that you could safely say that they do know its Christmas, and they probably care far more than most of the rest of us.
And there IS snow in Africa, and not just on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro. It gets bloody cold up in the highlands of Ethiopia as I can well vouch for. I am freezing.
I am at Lalibela in the bleak north of the country. If any place sums up the multifaceted character of Ethiopia, it is Lalibela. A UNESCO world heritage site on a remote plateau, surrounded by some of the poorest people you will ever meet – eking out a tenuous existence in some of the most remote and unfertile areas on the planet, many of them being supported by UN feeding programmes.
There are 11 stone carved churches here at Lalibela, dating back to the reign of King Lalibela over 800 years ago. Four are free standing, the rest are cave-style – carved into rock faces. Ethiopian legend has it that the king was poisoned, but survived the attack. In gratitude he built the churches, with the help of angels, in just one day. I made the mistake of discussing this theory with Hailemiriam, a young student who guided me around the churches for a few days. His absolute belief in the teachings of the Christian church helped me to get amazing access at the various churches, but he certainly wasn’t the person to question the legend of the Lalibela churches with! There are a couple of other theories. Popular in the West is the notion that the churches were constructed a few hundred years earlier by Crusaders returning from the holy land, but the most likely is that the construction was started by King Lalibela, but finished later.
Whatever lies behind the construction, the churches certainly are an amazing feat of engineering. The most well known is Bet Giorgis, the House of St George, created from solid rock in the shape of a giant cross. Looking down into the courtyard from ground level I could see that the builders would first have had to cut down six metres to form the outside of the building and the courtyard. Then they would have cut doors and windows into the structure and hollowed it out from the inside – making sure that they left adequate supports for heavy structure. All of this was done (with or without the help of angels) with just hand tools.
We move on to the Bet Gabriel-Rufa’el (House of Archangels) Church also known as the Palace of King Lalibela. I’m a little nervous. Last time I was here about three years before I managed to get into a bit of a fight with the priest. I was on an overland tour and a few of us were walking round. A small boy tagged along with us and offered to mind our shoes when we went into the churches. He was decent enough so I let him. It was a good arrangement until the priest at this church slapped him round the head without warning telling him to get out of the church. I don’t like anyone slapping kids – something I managed to convey to the supposed holy man in no uncertain terms. True at that time we also had a seemingly tame monkey that adopted us as well, which might have sent the priest over the top. Still if he recognised me (or remembered the boy or the monkey) he seemed to think better than to mention it, and I didn’t think to bring it up.
I’m not a very good tourist. I find facts just whistle over my head, and my eyes glaze over with too much sightseeing, but there’s something about Lalibela that does manage to entrance me. The churches are undoubtedly beautiful, which helps, but also the liberal smattering of pilgrims mix well with the odd hermit, who sit there reading tatty bibles. Other highlights are the treasures that each priest brings out conspiratorially at each church. Sometimes it’s an ancient bible, hand painted onto goat skin in the old forgotten religious language of Ge’ez, or even an ancient painting of religious icons, some five hundred years old, but with colours that are still so bright they could have been painted just yesterday.
Inside of the Bet Medhane Alem (the House of Emmanuel), the priest shows me the cross that was fairly recently stolen by a tourist but later returned. It’s one of the most sacred treasures, said to belong to King Lalibela himself. This church is huge. Eight hundred square metres, and completely supported by 72 pillars – half inside and half outside this great structure. Like Bet Giorgis, it was carved in one piece from solid rock and is reputed to be the largest carved monolithic structure in the world. The inside is huge and gloomy. The priest suggests that I come back the next day as there is some sort of festival going on.
When I do get back, the place is absolutely packed with pilgrims. Some sit around appearing to do very little, but others are praying at the front. The same priest from the day before brings out the cross and is immediately mobbed by pilgrims struggling to get to kiss it. A moment of fear flickers across his place then he growls something in Ethiopian, and the crowd calms slightly. He disappears down the church pursued by his retinue of the faithful.
Outside in the overcast daylight, the courtyard of the church is also full of pilgrims. A priest is reading from a bible, but he is totally obscured by a large umbrella and his disjointed voice booms around the courtyard.
One of the things that I find the most evocative about the churches is the fact that they’re still so revered, and an active place of worship. Each has its own priest and congregation, and although to Westerners they are just one more site on the UNESCO tick off list, to Ethiopians they’re a source of hope and comfort in their hard lives.
On my last full day I decide to visit the Asheton Maryam Monastery. This is a two or three hour walk up one of the mountains overlooking the town. Yet again Hailemariam is going to be my guide – even though, nothing personal, I would probably rather be on my own.
As we head out of town a bunch of touts with donkeys try to rent us mounts for the journey. I feel guilty, but I really don’t want one. I’ve found this a real problem in Ethiopia. I feel guilty as hell turning down services I don’t want as people rely on the income.
The path is steep, but hell, the views are fantastic. Not for the first time I get an idea of how absolutely remote this place is. The altitude feels pretty harsh up here, which is not helped by the heavy camera bag. Hailemariam offers to carry it again, but at under half my size, I really don’t have the heart to let him.
After a couple of hours slog we reach a plateau. It’s windswept and barren here, but there are a number of small stone dwellings, and a patchwork of dry, pale fields covered with stones and rubble. I wonder how anyone can make anything grow up here – but people are trying. In one of the fields a man is plowing the field, with an old wooden plough pulled by a couple of skinny cows. It’s the sort of thing that you might expect to see in a museum or on the wall of a country pub, but here it’s still in use. A young girl stands in the field in a torn dress and bright blue shoes. She’s sowing seed as he plows. They’re right on the edge of the plateau, and the ground just drops away at the edge of the field. There is, of course, no fence or barrier.
We continue on up the hill. Another young girl appears. She has a couple of bottles of a soft drink. They’re warm, so I tell her to leave them in a trickling stream, and say that we’ll buy them on our way back down.
The monastery is much smaller than I thought, and set in a cave. An old priest is inside. He shows neither surprise nor pleasure at seeing us arrive, just beckons us in to show us around. There are all sorts of religious treasures inside here – including ancient paintings and illuminated bibles painted on goat skin. The priest has a fantastic face and I invite him outside to take his picture. He looks at the camera with a face totally timeless and unfathomable.
The cola girl appears with our two bottles. They are colder now. I buy one for Hailemariam and one for me and we drink them eagerly. She grins happily. She’s a smart kid and has obviously picked up on the cold drinks message. I’ve visions of passing this way in a few years and seeing her running a small café and guesthouse. She’ll go a long way if people will only let her.
She follows us to the edge of the plateau carrying the empty bottles, then waves as we head back down the path. Just by something as simple as buying a couple of soft drinks we have, in some small way, made the world a better place.
Plunging deep into the ocean with your legs strapped together and no oxygen tank may sound like a Houdini escape stunt, but it’s all part of the job when you’re a mermaid. Since developing the unusual act more than a decade ago, bookings for aquarium appearances and commercials have poured in for self-styled mermaid Kazzie Mahina.
As a child Mahina invented mermaid games with her friends. She would tie up their legs with rope, insist they keep pet frogs and ensure they answered to mermaid names. “I was taking it pretty seriously,” she admits. “I thought everyone wanted to play mermaid games, but apparently not as much as me!” An invitation to swim with dolphins as part of a water-awareness campaign sparked an adult Mahina’s interest in performing as marine life once more. It was a lifestyle she fell for hook, line and sinker.
These days the Byron Bay local finds herself traipsing around the world for mermaiding jobs and delving into an underwater world where the likes of Ariel and King Triton are far from fantasy. “I love the adventure of it,” she says. “I get to experience things that I probably wouldn’t have been able to had I not had this job. I end up with all sorts of opportunities in my inbox; some crazy, others wonderful.” As well as photo shoots and party appearances she’s even starred in a music video clip for ‘Let’s Get Ridiculous’ by pop singer Redfoo.
Performing as a mermaid involves far more than swimming with a shimmering appendage. It takes a tremendous amount of skill to be able to dive deep in freezing water and still pose gracefully for photographs. “It can often feel like an extreme sport, but people think it looks so easy,” Mahina says. In reality, she’s a professionally trained contemporary dancer and has the ability to hold her breath for five minutes while free diving. “If someone is not at ease under the water, asking them to dance, mermaid, smile and look like they would out of the water is almost impossible.” Even aquarium shoots can be challenging, with visitors watching her every move and kids expecting interaction while she works.
Over the years her career has taken her to some of the world’s most desirable aquatic destinations including the waters of Mexico, Thailand, Indonesia and Hawaii, where she’s had the chance to swim with sharks, dolphins and, most enviable of all, whales. “I was mermaiding in Tonga, swimming alongside a mother whale and her calf. I played and danced with the calf and was right beside the mother. I was so close I could’ve touched her.”
Life as a mermaid is not always smooth sailing, however, and keeping your wits about you while in the ocean is a must. As well as the threat of looking like a fish out of water in a client’s photographs if something goes awry, presenting yourself as a sea creature slides you down the food chain, too. One of Mahina’s most perilous moments came during a night swim in Thailand, where she was mistaken for a fish. “As I started splashing my tail about, a fishing boat must’ve heard and came full throttle towards me with the nets raised up high, ready to trap me. I was about to end up as catch of the day!”
Marine conservation is a big part of her life as a mermaid. She uses her personal brand as an aquatic icon and her own conservation group, which she calls the MerPod Ocean Tribe, to spread awareness and help educate others about the declining health of our oceans. Her group has partnered with the Tangaroa Blue Ocean Care Society to help conduct beach clean-ups and information sessions that teach people about the effects of pollution and the importance of taking action for the sake of future generations. It has also teamed up with musician and former pro surfer Jack Johnson and Australian Seabird Rescue for local environmental projects.
Unsurprisingly, Mahina still gets puzzled looks when she mentions her profession. But the tide seems to be turning. “I’ve noticed the response is completely different to what it was early in my career. In a time where there’s no shortage of bad news and terrible stories, one of the things that’s made me feel quite fulfilled in my life is being able to be something that’s joyful and positive; that’s balancing the world out in some way.” Plus, you can’t help but smile when you see an adult swimming around in a sparkling tail.
Despite government prohibition, Philadelphia was the bootlegging, speakeasy capital of the United States for more than a decade. At one point, some 8000 secret bars heaved in the basements of this city. Today it still carries on this rich legacy of bars, pubs and late-night cheesesteaks. The bars in Philadelphia are like a good book: you can’t judge them by their front doors. Planning a night here without first recognising the city as one of the 1920s wettest and wickedest would be perilous.
This was once the wild west of Prohibition, where the sons of Italian, Irish and Polish mobsters ran rum up and down the coast and established some of the most notorious breweries and brothels. This history has defined the late-night culture, but as both Rittenhouse Square and Old City still retain this alluring underworld and cobblestoned charm – reminiscent of a Boardwalk Empire episode – if you spent all your time in these two well-known haunts, you would fail to unlock a drinking scene that now rivals Williamsburg in Brooklyn. In recent years, like the roots of a giant tree in search of water or one of those mobsters seeking out his rum, Philadelphia has begun its natural gentrification into its outer neighbourhoods. Now both locals and tourists are discovering a new Philly under intense revival in the streets of Northern Liberties and Fishtown. Here is a comeback that is still underpinned – for the better – by its grimy bootlegging past.
4pm
Philadelphia is home to one of America’s largest and oldest public markets. Reading Street Terminal has been in the same location since 1893 and is awash every day with boisterous traders, exotic produce, food stalls and bars. An afternoon of shopping in the city is hungry and thirsty work, so if you’re starting your evening here you won’t be short of options. But as you peek over the swarming mass of shoppers, follow your nose to Carmen’s Famous Italian Hoagies. The line will be long and the service will be loud (for some reason, they prefer to shout), but you won’t be disappointed. Order a Classic Cheesesteak and wait for your playing card (a unique take on your service number) to be called, which will happen quicker than your belly can rumble. Instead of eating your food here, get it to take away and prop yourself up in the common seating area of the main market before slinking into Molly Molloy’s for a pint among the organised chaos.
Carmen’s Famous Italian Hoagies & Molly Molloy’s, Reading Terminal Market
51 N 12th St, Philadelphia, PA 19107, USA readingterminalmarket.org
5pm
Set in the heart of the more bourgeois section of Rittenhouse Square, Good Dog Bar is a hidden ode to man’s best friend, where drinkers are encouraged to come and spend the afternoon among the pooch-themed décor. It’s also a local favourite for catching the city’s beloved football team, the Philadelphia Eagles. Almost every bar in the city offers a ridiculous discount on beer when the team is playing. The bar has a well-curated beer list, a head chef who is determined to return this hidden gem to its former gastro pub glory days, and the crowd is a mix of young professionals, barristers and bike couriers all finishing their days and starting their nights.
Good Dog Bar
224 S 15th St, Philadelphia, PA 19102, USA gooddogbar.com
6.30pm
In a city so famous for drinking, its world-class Chinatown district is often overlooked. Confined within a six-block radius, this throwback oriental microcosm is home to some of the best bars and restaurants in town and a trip here is not complete without a visit to Bing Bing Dim Sum. A small, local eatery that takes very limited reservations, Bing Bing represents everything that is good about a true Chinatown cultural melting pot in a big city, as is serves up small south Chinese plates with a Jewish-American twist. We needn’t tell you what to order here, just get one of everything.
Bing Bing Dim Sum
1648 E Passyunk Ave, Philadelphia,
PA 19148, USA bingbingdimsum.com
7.30pm
Before Philly’s dirty Prohibition past, its history was rooted in liberty and democracy. Philadelphia was once the temporary capital of the United States and when you’re meandering the streets of its Old City at night, you can’t help but picture a young Thomas Jefferson and John Adams scurrying between its watering holes and scribbling down policies over a pint for their boss, George Washington. The Glory Beer Bar and Kitchen is a symbol of present-day beer democracy that its city forefathers would be proud of, with three long communal drinking tables, 36 taps and a beer bottle list with more than a hundred varieties.
Glory Beer Bar & Kitchen
126 Chestnut St, Philadelphia,
PA 19106, USA gloryphilly.com
8.30pm
Leaving the justice fanfare behind, it’s time to channel your inner Philly mobster. This is where you disappear down a dark alley on historic Chestnut Street and look for a concealed black door with two red ‘R’s. Once you enter The Ranstead Room, a hostess will take you through another hidden door into a small, dark bar, illuminated only by the lighting on the pin-up style nudes on the wall, setting a sultry mood. This is old-world Philadelphia and the boutique, luxury leather stools are reminiscent of a 1930s Roadster’s rumble seats. But it’s the seasonal menu of cocktails that are true works of art. Designed in layers, don’t go past the Gin, Gin, Ginny and make sure to munch on the spiced popcorn – you’ll never look at the corn kernel snack the same way again.
The Ranstead Room
2013 Ranstead St, Philadelphia,
PA 19103, USA ransteadroom.com
9pm
With stomachs full of liquor, food is fast becoming a necessity for the night. When Philly bellies start to rumble, locals typically make their way to the bustling Northern Liberties precinct. Heritage is the new kid on the block in NoLibs, but it’s quickly becoming a crowd favourite for cashed-up hipsters. This high-ceilinged venue offers a beer selection you couldn’t get through in a lifetime and live jazz every night of the week. Its menu is also vast, meaty and cheesy (exactly what you would expect in this city). Share a platter of slow-roasted chicken and braised ribs, while some of the best jazz musicians in town serenade you.
Heritage
914 N 2nd St, Philadelphia, PA 19123, USA heritage.life
10.30pm
It might be the pints talking, but there’s something strangely alluring about ten-pin bowling and neon lights at this time of night. Nearly every bar in NoLibs is a big kid’s playground with arcade games and skee-ball aplenty, but just across the road from Heritage you’ll find a place to channel your inner 12-year-old. North Bowl is not your typical bowling alley. It’s a modern take on a classic American pastime and this classy bar-cum-recreational venue crashed its way into NoLibs a decade ago offering a drinks service right to your lane, retro bowling benches from the 1950s and an sculptural upstairs bar that looks down on the mayhem of the less-than-impressive ‘bowling’ taking place below. Book a lane ahead and you’re guaranteed a good time.
12am
As the witching hour strikes, it’s time to return to adult life. Fishtown is no place to drop your guard. Not because it’s unsafe – this part of Philadelphia is under a warp-speed transformation, recently earning the reputation as America’s hottest new neighbourhood. You’ll likely arrive here from Downtown on “the El”, one of the country’s oldest elevated subways. As the doors jolt open, prepare to be smacked in the face by a cacophony of hipsters, eateries and new bars so thick you would think you were in downtown Portland or Melbourne. Garage Philly represents everything that’s eclectic and new about Fishtown. You can bring your own food to this giant converted mechanics garage and enjoy its somewhat daunting selection of beers and cocktails. On a summer night, sit in the window and watch as restored trolleys from the 1960s, thunder by the bustling footpath.
2am
From that same window you’ll soon peep (if you don’t smell it first) Joe’s Steak and Soda just across the road. This favourite has been a beacon of late-night drunk munchies since 1949 and is the undisputed king of cheese, meat and bread in Philadelphia. Order just about anything on the menu here and be assured of a no-fuss, sandwich in an old diner guaranteed to make that hangover tomorrow just a little more bearable.
Joe’s Steak and Soda
1 W Girard Ave, Philadelphia, PA 19123, USA joessteaks.com
Those travelling to Toronto won’t be surprised to hear that the city’s streets come alive once the sun has gone down. But knowing where to go to find the city’s best parties is part of the challenge. As co-owner of the late Footwork club and current CODA nightclub, and partner of Toronto’s Electric Island Festival series, Joel Smye is an integral tastemaker among Toronto’s nightlife. He’s been living and breathing the nightlife air for as long as he can remember. It’s only natural then that Joel knows where to go when it comes to, as he describes, an “unfiltered, historic tour through Toronto’s nightlife.” Strolling through the bohemian streets of Kensington Market, and down the Ossington strip, Joel pops his head into various bars, bidding hello to industry friends, while sharing tales of past romances. He takes us along for the ride.The views from the Thompson Rooftop are spectacular.
5:30pm
The Thompson Rooftop lounge provides breathtaking views of Toronto’s skyline. When Friday hits, this is the perfect place to unwind and celebrate another working week. On the Thompson Hotel’s 16th floor, you’ll be greeted by cocktails, gourmet food and an unparalleled panoramic view of the downtown core and Lake Ontario, not to mention the chance to gawk at the activities happening by the crystal-clear rooftop pool. Throughout the summer months, the Thompson Rooftop plays host to an array of events, and last season’s ABOVE series, which featured local DJs every Sunday, quickly became a city favourite.
6:30pm
Between the neighbourhoods of Little Italy and Chinatown, Toronto’s free spirits, bargain-hunters and foodies come together at Kensington Market. As one of the city’s oldest and most colourful boroughs, Kensington offers a truly multi-cultural experience to all who stroll through. The eclectic mix of vintage clothing stores, grocers and cafés makes Kensington Market a beloved landmark in the city. Whoever said jazz is a dying art just didn’t know where to find it. Kensington Market is home to one of Toronto’s most provocative jazz bars – Poetry. Amongst the dimly lit, narrow halls, art lovers come here to lose themselves in the sounds of dark rhythmic soul, haunting vocals, dynamic spoken word and lively percussion.
7:00pm
You can’t leave Kensington Market without indulging in one of the many specialty restaurants. Otto’s Berlin Döner is a highlight, specialising in two of Germany’s most beloved street foods: the döner kebab and currywurst. It’s spearheaded by the Mansion Brothers, a team of young, creative restaurateurs, who are also responsible for several other concept-restaurants across the city including Otto’s Bierhalle and SoSo. Joel goes straight for the kill ordering a veal and lamb döner, washing it down with Munich Gold. As a little insider’s tip, Joel instructs us to head into the washrooms where you are faced with the decision of whether to press the red or the blue button to turn your bathroom visit into a dance party.
8:00pm
Without a doubt, the best meet-up spot in the summer goes to Trinity Bellwoods. Encompassing the blocks between Dundas West and Queen West, this park is bustling with energy at any hour. From dog walkers to slack-liners, yogis and pot-smokers, Trinity Bellwoods is where you want to be. Joel leads us hazily through the park, soaking up the final day’s rays and observing the action around us. The summer months offer something extra special to the neighbourhood foodies. Every Tuesday from May to October, the park turns into a farmers’ market. Held by the northwest entrance of the park from 3pm to 7pm, rain or shine, the Trinity Bellwoods Farmers’ Market welcomes local famers, wineries and artisans to sell their fresh, seasonal produce to park-dwellers.
9:30pm
Ossington Avenue has quickly become one of the hottest destinations for trendy, upscale dining in the city. When the weekend hits, Ossington is flooded with locals and out-of-towners alike, waiting for a seat at their favourite restaurant. Whether it’s buck-a-shuck oysters at Böehmer, grilled lamb chops at Mamakas, or the burnt toffee ice cream at Bang Bang, there’s an eatery for everyone. There’s even a barbershop that turns into a speakeasy when night falls. Dubbed the ‘Gift Shop’, most don’t know about this hidden gem, but if you follow the neon red, flashing ‘Bar-ber’, you’ll find yourself tucked away at the back of a store, sipping on mezcal and talking to the barman known only as ‘H’.
11:00pm
At the bottom of Ossington Avenue lies a bar that goes by the ambiguous name of Apt. 200. The concept came from its sister bar of the same name, located in Montreal. Modelled on the idea that you’re hanging in the apartment of a close friend, Apt. 200 offers a cosy, intimate vibe with arcade games, a pool table and atmospheric lighting, along with a menu of creative cocktails. On the weekends, Apt. 200 plays host to the hottest names in hip-hop, making this a favourite amongst Toronto’s urban community. With our bellies full from dinner, and the drinking already begun at the Gift Shop, we opt to stop here for a tipple, sipping on a ‘Cosmo TO’, made with hibiscus vodka, Cointreau, lime and cranberry before heading out to dance the rest of the night away.
1:00am
Given Joel can offer immediate access, CODA nightclub is the final stop for our night and we walk through the doors like VIPs. CODA is located in the heart of the Annex and holds the title of Toronto’s number one destination for underground house and techno. Co-owned by Joel and his business partner Stephan Philion, CODA has played host to some of the world’s most renowned DJs, including Sasha, Richie Hawtin, Sven Väth, Dixon and many more. Tonight, it’s the UK’s Billy Kenny who is getting the dance floor rowdy. With a packed house, the energy is truly electric! As the ominous lighting dances across the glistening faces of partiers, it’s clear that everyone is here for the sole love of music.
We’re bombing across a rocky, jet black plateau that looks like the kind of other-worldly place NASA would explore with a wheeled robot. “Do you want to know something about this road?” our guide asks us with a sly wink. “It’s a new road – but there was a problem. It passed through elf territory. So when the government built it they left gold as compensation to the elves. The gold was eventually taken away. It must have been the elves – who else would take it? At least that’s the story I was told!”
My girlfriend and I are in Iceland for a bit of quiet away from the urban crush of London. We’ve been told that this is one of the cleanest and greenest destinations worldwide. I wonder if we’ll see a clean-living elf recycling his rubbish by the side of the road.
I chuckle at the guide and turn to look out of the window at the bright northern sun rising over this scruffy lunar landscape just outside Reykjavik – it’s the very first glimpse of Iceland visitors get as their plane lands at Keflavik International Airport. We’re crossing the volcanic black Reykjanesskagi Peninsula at the south-western tip of Iceland to immerse ourselves in the country’s most famous tourist attraction.
The fact that a country’s most famous tourist attraction is a bubbling cauldron of geothermal energy says a lot about modern Iceland. This is a place where, the occasional aluminium smelter notwithstanding, the environment really matters. The natural world is literally the heart and soul of the island. The Icelanders realised long before green issues became fashionable in the 1990s that it was essential to protect their land to ensure their very survival. Now they use it in their tourism marketing too.
We screech into the empty car park of this volcanic Disneyland – the Blue Lagoon. It’s early and we’re the first tour bus in town. Lately, Iceland’s tourism has been promoting this isolated country at the very tip of Europe as a green utopia. They’ve whipped up sleek TV adverts showing hot Scandinavian couples paddling in bubbling geothermal pools; all of it backed by a stirring soundtrack of Sigur Rós – but more on the island’s music scene later.
Kitted out with trunks and towel, I strip off and wash myself down – getting into a pool in Iceland while dirty is like farting at the dinner table. You’ll be castigated for it. Cleaned up, I brave the icy wind blowing across the alfresco complex and make a dash for the hot spa pool. I wade in and feel the warm water cover me like a blanket.
The Blue Lagoon is not like anywhere I’ve been before. You won’t forget the blue-tinted, mineral-rich water heated to 40ºC by the earth’s magma, the steam clouds rising from the pools, the chilly breeze and the modern wooden pavilion where tourists buy souvenirs, eat lunch and get changed. My girlfriend rubs the famous silica mud onto my face and I wonder how many visits it will take to transform me into a more handsome human specimen, like the macho inhabitants
of the island, who all seem descended from muscular Vikings.
The Blue Lagoon, though thrilling, is in some ways a ruse – the water is essentially the excess outfall from the Svartsengi Power Station next door. But that’s Iceland for you; they make the best of what they’ve got. In much the same way that they ferment dead shark and then sell it to tourists as a delicacy called hakari – despite US superchef Anthony Bourdain saying it was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.
Geothermal power, though, is a green Icelandic trump card. The power station, which slips from view as we head back towards the centre of Reykjavik, is one of five that power a quarter of the kettles in the entire country and provide almost all the house heating, plus hot water from the tap. Most of the rest of the island’s power comes from hydro and wind. Eventually the government wants the nation to be 100 per cent free of fossil fuel power. No other country in our lifetime will ever come close to that.
But no other country is like Iceland. As we shoot through the low-rise suburbs of the capital city, it looks a bit like Oslo or Copenhagen. But fiercely proud Iceland still ploughs its own furrow. Its greatest shame is whaling, totally at odds with the environmental image it wants to portray, and tourism authorities would love to make the fishing lobby pack up and go home. You can take a boat trip out to the bay to watch majestic minke playing and wonder why the country still hunts them. Perhaps it’s partly because Icelanders are so independent.
Before the banking crisis in 2008, Iceland was at full steam ahead in its own weird economic miracle. It was famed for its rich citizens and high prices. Prices have dropped somewhat, but when I hand over a fistful of krónur for a beer, it still sends my pulse racing. “How much?” I mumble in my head. But the same go-it-alone mindset, which caused Iceland to inflate a reckless economic bubble, also allowed it to install kilometres of cycle lanes in the city, promote recycling and resist industrial development to give it some of the cleanest air and safest streets you’ll find. They did things their way, for better or worse. The singer Björk started a fund to help support green industry in the country and the city’s new tourist motto is ‘pure energy’.
Back in the city, we take a stroll round central Reykjavik to explore more. Seagulls flutter all around in the sky above. The streets are so clean you could eat your dinner off them. This small capital of low-rise, slat-panelled buildings painted in primary colours, as if by up-beat school kids, is easy to negotiate. It’s really just a big village. We pass multicoloured recycling boxes everywhere, and clean parks. We swing by the Thermal Beach – open May to August every year at the end of the domestic airport’s little runway, where hot springs heat the sea water and sand is imported from North Africa. There are hundreds of pools and ‘hot pots’ – hot tubs – scattered around this spa-mad city. We skirt the serene Tjörnin, a lake in the city’s centre surrounded by lush green grass. Cyclists and joggers are burning the calories off, a Scandinavian phlegmatic look painted on their faces. Renting a bike is easy and the city produces cycle path maps to get you from A to B. We agree to hire a bike next time we’re in town, but this time take the next best alternative: walking the wide pavements.
Trundling along the city’s main street, Laugavegur, my girlfriend’s eye is taken by a different type of recycling. The many vintage stores on the street compete with up-market boutiques for the city’s fashion-conscious girls. I look up and down the street at the handsome men and beautiful women joking around and speaking in such a deliciously tongue-tangling way to one another.
In view of the monumental concrete church tower of the Hallgrímskirkja, we stop in for a drink at Kaffibarinn – a top little bar that Blur’s Damon Albarn apparently loved so much he bought a share in it. An Anglophile sort of place, its sign looks like a London Underground roundel, but there’s plenty of Icelandic spirit inside. We sample shots of Brennivín (aka Black Death), a fiery, potatoey, vodka substitute that puts hairs on your chest. As the afternoon ticks on, the booze begins to kick in, and a group of local men burst into an impromptu rendition of a traditional sea shanty – a gruff baritone lament for the high seas. It sends tingles up my spine.
Music runs through the veins of Icelanders. It’s a national obsession that culminates each October with the Iceland Airwaves festival. Last year saw the new breed of Icelandic bands such as Amiina playing alongside US, European and Scandinavian talent. For a country of barely more than 300,000 people, Iceland boasts an impressive collection of modern bands like For a Minor Reflection, and the wonderful party-starting pop act FM Belfast, whose songs seem to be on in every shop and bar we visit over our weekend.
There’s an even more famous star in town this weekend though. Yoko Ono fell for the island because of its commitment to green energy and because it doesn’t have an army. On the anniversary of what would have been John Lennon’s 60th birthday, we watch Ono perform a concert with her and John’s son, Sean Lennon, at a concert hall. Ono tells of how much she loves Iceland, and the crowd whoop and cheer “I love you!” at her. The atmosphere crackles. In many ways the concert is as much a tribute to the free-spirited, eco-conscious islanders as it is to Lennon’s memory.
Ono’s other tribute to John and to Reykjavik is a boat-ride away, and it’s our final date with this loveable, liveable city. We take an eight-minute boat ride across the harbour to the tiny island of Videy.
The day is fading fast and the Atlantic wind whips across my face. I look down at the clear harbour water, my eyes straining to see fish or whales, but I’m beaten by the lack of light. Still, out here on the gently rolling waves, the air is as fresh and pure as any I’ve ever breathed. They should bottle it.
After a 15-minute walk over low green hillocks of Videy, and past a charming old priory, we are faced with a pillar of light shooting up into the night sky as far as the eye can see. The Imagine Peace Tower is, aptly, powered by geothermal energy and has become a new icon of green Reykjavik – a constant reminder of peace and love. With the words ‘imagine peace’ inscribed into its stone base in many languages, its light is visible all over the city. And that beam of light stands for peace, for ecology, for friendship and for fun – all the characteristics that Reykjavik has in spades.
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