Actually I just pretended  that I was still on a boat because, in a sense, I was.The floating islands on Lake Titicaca in Peru are famous throughout South America. The Uros tribe members create their “land” from the long totora reeds that crowd the lake for miles in certain areas. They tie the harvested reeds in bundles to make great rafts, sometimes anchoring them with stone, but usually nestling them within the living reeds. More reeds are then chopped to create even surfaces for walking.

The reeds have many uses on the islands. The Uros skillfully weave them into boats that are wonderfully buoyant and they are the main building material for the homes. Even food is created from the pith of the reeds, which make a nourishing asparagus-like vegetable. Some of the pith is also dried and turned into flour, which is then made into bread.

It takes a skillful boatman to reach the Uros’ floating islands through a labyrinth of reeds.

The Uros began their floating lifestyle about two centuries before the Spanish conquest. While the Incas were busy empire-building, the group marched to the lake. The Uros had lived on the shores until then, but with the advancement of Inca armies they took refuge, hiding in the reeds.

For a long time, the Incas did indeed march right on by to go to war with the Aymaras, who lived on the far side of this huge lake. The two armies battled back and forth for years. However, the Incas eventually discovered the Uros, resulting in enslavement and taxation of the island dwellers.

In the end, the Incas gave up, leaving the Aymaras triumphant. The Uros began a small trade with the Aymaras, providing fish and reeds for land-raised goods. Eventually, the Aymara tongue was adopted by the Uros.

One thing didn’t change — the Uros didn’t leave the reeds. They remained where they felt safe and knew how to survive. To this day, even finding the floating islands takes a canny guide and skillful boatman to reach the water paths amid the miles of reeds.

In the middle of the island where we had been welcomed was a small hole where the Uros kids learn to swim. When literally living on a lake, drown-proofing the children becomes a priority.

There is also a small lookout tower on each island. This offers a way to stay in touch and signal one another as well as watch for trouble, or, these days, visitors.

While other Peruvian tribes revere Pachamama, or Mother Universe, the Uros revere Mother Lake. The bountiful lake provides them with fish and reeds, and the reeds provide them with nearly everything.

I notice strange-looking contraptions on the roofs of the straw huts. It seems the Uros used to use fish oil lamps or candles for light but that created a fire danger. Some bright soul came up with the idea of a small solar panel that could light a single light bulb and now most primitive straw huts throughout the villages have their own panel.

Children enjoy running and playing on their home on the water.

Special care has to be taken when cooking and fires are made atop stones so as to not burn the ground beneath them. A kind Uros woman showed us how she made her flour, grinding it between stones taken from the mainland, and let us taste the flatbread she baked. A big pot of water was kept at hand to douse any sparks that might fly.

Living on a floating island has its advantages. When the family gets too large or if there are disagreements in a village, a section of the island is sawed off and it floats away.

Our guide told us the island we were visiting used to be much larger, but that had occurred just recently here. Thus, the number of islands varies, but there are generally between 40 and 50 at any given time.

Island living also has its problems. The reeds have to be replenished constantly. We watched straw boats hauling in large loads of reeds for that purpose. If the reed mat gets so thick as to touch bottom, it begins to rot, so a boat must be hired to tow the island to deeper water.

If not kept up, the surface of the island can get spongy underfoot. Islands usually last a full generation, about 30 years, so island making is a constant project.

The surface of the island was strewn with chopped dry reeds. It was like walking where a bunch of hay bales had broken open. The golden color contrasted vividly with the green of the surrounding reeds and the blue of the lake waters.

In the market of the nearby town of Puno, the Uros hold the monopoly on fish sales. These days, however, as the fame of their strange islands spread, tourism is becoming an important source of income, with many of the tourists being fellow Peruvians.

The Uros boast skilled needlewomen and their work is in demand by visitors, increasing income. The men, so good at weaving their own boats, also weave miniature ones to sell. Most of the people incorporate tourist visits from small groups like ours into their regular routines and offer natural hospitality.

However, some only see dollar signs. One obnoxious fellow followed us on our ride on a straw boat playing the flute quite badly all the while, and then demanded a tip.  I wondered whether that attitude would spread among these innocent people whose unique culture had survived for so long.

The Uros women are skilled needleworkers whose work is in demand by visitors.

Nowadays, many of the young people paddle off in their boats to settle on shore and get jobs on the mainland. From thousands, the number of Uros still on the islands is down into the hundreds.

While there is still a lively village life with people paddling between islands and hauling their catch to shore, I fear the Uros way of life is slowly disappearing. The older folks do, too, as they lament the steady drain of their young. Of course, I can understand the lure of a life with bright lights and solid ground beneath one’s feet.

If You Go

Peru Tourism Board

www.peru.info

Originally a ‘Bama girl, Andrea Granahan left the South and settled in Bodega, California. An award winning journalist and former newspaper publisher, she now does freelance travel writing and loves out-of-the-way places.

I didn’t know I was traveling until the train pulled out of the station. But suddenly, I was on my way to Dalian, a coastal city in Northeast China at the Bohai Sea, five non-stop hours away from Shenyang, where I was teaching English. Sometimes travel happens by accident.

My stay was only 30-days-old and I had come to terms ― if not yet embraced ― my daily trials: learning Mandarin by the thimbleful; eating foods that may or may not fall within basic food group guidelines; waking up to students “sounding off,” deep into military exercises each morning. But accidental travel? This was too much.

I was still digesting my new reality, acclimating to life in big-city Shenyang (population 4 million, located about 12 hours by rail northeast of the capital Beijing) when my neighbor, Howard, a British expatriate who had been in China a year, came knocking. He had three ladies in tow, all foreign teachers like us: two Americans teaching English, and Izumi, from Japan, teaching Japanese. They needed help with the language (some) and luggage (mostly) and so, I was brought on as labor. David, another American, joined us and that made six.

We trotted off to the train station and, big spenders that we were, purchased the one-Yuan (US$ 0.20) platform tickets necessary to enter the boarding area with the ladies. We muscled their luggage through the train’s narrow doors, down the skinny aisles and onto the top baggage racks. Happy when the grunt work was done, Howard, David and I didn’t immediately step off the train. As we visited, chitchatting easily, learning about each other, sharing some laughs, I noticed outside the window attendants were waving green flags. Hmm, being newest to the group, I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries, so I stayed quiet. My first mistake.

“Oh, oh, thank you, train moving,” Izumi said in delightfully worded English. It took her to finally speak what we others slowly realized, but didn’t say.

Sure enough, the train began to move, as trains eventually do, and though the others were seasoned travelers, this was my first ― albeit unplanned ― rail trip in China. We scrambled for the onboard attendant to resolve the situation.

Traveling by rail, whether it be planned or not, is a popular mode of transportation in China.

Can we stop the train?

No, there is a schedule to keep.

Could we get off at the next town?

No, it is an “express” without a stop until we hit Dalian.

Can we speak to the supervisor?

No, he is back in Shenyang.

No, no, and, no. Three strikes.

The only solution was to pay for tickets and then purchase return tickets once in Dalian. This was a problem since we boarded the train purely as chivalrous gentlemen.

So we had only pocket money which, when pooled, registered in the shallow end, 75 Yuan (US$ 15). It was enough to buy one and a half tickets of the lowest budget ride ― hard seat, with the comfort level exactly how it sounds. One-way. No return fund.

At the time, some pricing standards reflected official policies; others, let’s say, were less official. Chinese paid one price; non-Chinese paid another (often double), or might be told that premium-level tickets were all that was available.

There was yet another price for non-Chinese working in China. So, for foreigners working in China to travel most economically, we needed a red card (work unit); a yellow card (working status); a green card (resident); and a passport optional (it has its own list of emergency uses). We three kings of the Occident had none of these.

If lack of money or proper papers weren’t enough of a challenge, we had a few more to add to the pot. Six of us combined knew enough Mandarin to hold a sticky 10-minute conversation about the weather. The college in which two of us lived had security measures that monitored the foreign teachers comings and goings. If the teachers go missing overnight, the Foreign Affairs Office tends to get upset, as we found out.

All said, our plan was a simple one. Get the ladies to fund our way and use their documents to get us the best prices. They were surprisingly easy to convince considering the loan used up nearly all their resources, and though we’d be able to return on the next train back, they were determined to stay in Dalian for a few more days on meager funds.

In the month I had spent in China, the hospitality was impressive ― almost embarrassingly so. Now here, tagging along with some whom I’d met for the first time, the good karma was galvanized. That was not the end of the goodwill, though. When we arrived in Dalian, we continued to visit the sights that were on the ladies’ original itinerary, though we didn’t have the money to enter any of the attractions that required fees. We spent the day at Laohutan (Tiger) Amusement Park, a full bargain of entertainment showcasing an aquarium, intricate sculptures and bird shows. Having left Shenyang’s gritty cityscape, it was a pleasure to see Dalian celebrating its natural beauty.

Unexpected friendships form at Tiger Beach in Dalian, a coastal city in Northeastern China.

At Tiger Beach ― Dalian’s best swimming waters ― Fortune opened her stingy purse just a sliver. Some Chinese Navy officers on leave were visiting the city as well. They adopted us (they must have been at sea a long time) and generously hosted us with the loose promise that we do the same when they come to visit us in our home cities or countries. (Unlikely course of events, but enough for us to save face just the same.) Incredibly gracious.

But all things come to an end. Time was nearing for our impromptu trip to close. This time the roles were reversed and the ladies saw us off. They sent us on our way with a bottle of water, a few apples and whatever we had left in our pockets, mostly lint.

It was late and the train ride back was the cheapest available, the “Red-Eye Milk Run.” It stops at every village, allowing enterprising recyclers aboard the train to scurry and scavenge amid our feet and under seats for bottles and returnables to supplement household income.

Capitalism never rests, though, as vendors pushed wares through the open window with one hand while the other was palm up for payment. Feigning sleep did not dissuade the persistent.

There’s really no way to describe one particularly tenacious chicken salesman who pounded his barbecued goods against the side of the train trying to rouse us. Really, at 3 a.m., do I honestly want to eat a drumstick that had been pummeled against a moving train window at g-force?

Actually, yes. We were reduced to the barest of rations. Prison inmates convicted of the most heinous crimes ate better than we did that night.

The train moved through space and time at a glacial pace, but we eventually alit on Shenyang firma at 4 a.m., in the northern station. We lived, of course, but a quick pedi-cab ride from the only other Shenyang train depot in the southernmost district. We had no option but to set off on foot aiming for morning classes at 7 a.m., with a wisp of hope that we’d not been missed.

Despite the hustle and bustle of big city Shenyang, beauty can be found around every corner.

Right. When we arrived back at the college, the Foreign Affairs Office had already alerted the police. Much translating and gesticulating went on, but we explained as best we could that the whole thing was a simple misunderstanding and nothing more. We had certainly never intended to ride the rails like hobos, drooling over other passengers’ box lunches, relying on the kindness of strangers to see us through Dalian and the night.

When all had settled and proper authorities were placated, classes over for the day, the adventure behind me, I slept. And I dreamt fondly of many subsequent train trips to far-reaching points of China. Some were even on purpose.

If You Go

China National Tourist Office

www.cnto.org

Sinner or not, when one comes right up to Hawai`i’s lava flows and peers into the abyss of surreal beauty and incredible power, one is duly humbled by Mother Nature’s machinations. The eerie scene gives the illusion of being present at the beginning of life on Earth.

The awesome display of Mother Nature’s fireworks, or in this case, of Madame Pele, the Hawaiian volcano goddess, attracts thousands of visitors daily to Hawai`i Volcanoes National Park. The Big Island of Hawai`i is one of the few places in the world where an erupting volcano can be viewed close up in relative safety.

A surface lava pool attracts visitors at Hawai`i Volcanoes National Park.

To see the activity, visitors drive to the end of Chain of Craters Road in the national park and hike to the eruption site, on the southeast coast of the Big Island. Here the creeping lava flows into the ocean, creating huge billowing steam clouds of volcanic smog, known as vog, over a stark landscape of raw new land.

Hawai`i’s Kilauea volcano began erupting on January 3, 1983, and has been in a steady active phase since then. According to volcanologists, this is the lengthiest eruption from the volcano’s down-slope rift zone in more than 600 years.

Scientists at Hawai`i Volcano Observatory note that the eruptive activity has slowed down recently, in comparison with earlier stages. Activity changes almost daily and is unpredictable at the Kilauea volcano, one of the most active in the world.

The current activity began with cracks in the earth’s surface that created lava flows, which increased over time. The lava ran several miles down slope in vast surface flows, at times reaching the sea through underground lava tubes.

Since the eruption began, lava flows several feet deep have covered some 45 square miles (11655 hectares) of rain forest and desert. The eruption has also created more than 560 acres (226 hectares) of new land along Hawai`i’s southeast coast.

The eruption has claimed no lives, but it has had a serious impact on area residents. It has devastated the quiet seaside village of Kalapana and area subdivisions, wiping out more than 180 homes and other buildings, and disrupting many lives. Flows have covered beach parks, several miles of roads and power lines, archaeological and historical sites, and a national park visitor’s center. It has also destroyed rare plant and animal habitats.

A photographer gets a closeup view of a surface lava flow in Hawai`i  Volcanoes National Park.

In spite of all the destruction, the volcano is an amazing display. The 20-mile (32 km) drive down the Chain of Craters Road to the eruption site is visually stunning. The fern and ohia lehua forest (Hawai`i’s most prolific native tree) open to vast stretches of lava flows reaching several miles down to the distant coastline.

Roadside markers note the various eruptions, lava flows and still-steaming cinder cones bearing melodious Hawaiian names. The strong winds carry wisps of clouds down slope and out to sea as your car carefully winds down the steep pali (cliff). Along the route, marked trails across the lava fields lead to ancient Hawaiian petroglyphs, early rock etchings that record important events in the lives of people who held this land sacred.

Rangers are stationed at the end of the Chain of Craters Road to inform visitors which areas are open and which are closed to the public. It’s a hike to get to the active lava flows. Depending on the volcano’s activity, this can be a short hike or a longer, more difficult hike of a couple of hours or more one way, over rough terrain. Looking up slope, one can see vast lava flows that have cleared wide swaths through the pristine Hawaiian forest on the way to the sea.

Some visitors get as close as they can to the creeping tongues of lava. The smooth pahoehoe lava flows like fresh cake batter dumped from a bowl. Others stand on the edge of what used to be a lovely black sand beach, now covered by cooling, but still crackling and steaming, lava. Clouds of volcanic haze fill the air as the red-orange lava flows into the crashing surf.

As the cool seawater hits the flow, the lava splatters and hisses, creating great vents of steam. Chunks of lava rock and pumice, still sizzling, break off and float into the water, to be carried by winds, tides and currents and deposited along the coast, to begin building yet another black sand beach.

And so it goes, in an unending cycle. The volcano both creates and destroys. Visitors come away feeling fortunate to be among those who have seen one of Mother Nature’s most powerful and colorful spectacles.

A surface lava flow glows at night.

If You Go

Nighttime is best for viewing the lava, but you need to be prepared, with good hiking shoes, hat, jacket, water, food and a flashlight. Check with park rangers on hiking hazards, stay on marked trails and obey all posted signs.

While visiting the national park, you may also enjoy Crater Rim Drive and Halemaumau Crater, Bird Park Trail and the Thurston Lava Tube. Be sure to be on the lookout for the endangered nene (Hawaiian goose), the state bird.

For lodging at Hawai`i Volcanoes National Park, check out the rustic Volcano House Hotel, www.volcanohousehotel.com. Backpackers can opt for simple A-frame cabins at Namakani Paio Campground in the national park; campground reservations are also made through Volcano House Hotel. Another good choice is the upscale bed & breakfast Kilauea Lodge, in nearby Volcano Village, www.KilaueaLodge.com.

Hawai`i Volcanoes National Park

www.nps.gov

Big Island Visitors Bureau

www.bigisland.org

The dream transforms as soon as we set foot on Aitutaki, one of the 15 idyllic Cook Islands located between Tahiti and Fiji. In addition to being welcomed by the traditional greeting of “kia orana” and a medley of blister-provoking ukulele tunes, my husband and I are draped with heavenly scented gardenias, offered coconut milk still in its original container, and treated to winning smiles. There’s no rush, no bustle. It’s obvious we’re on island time.

Fantasy blurs with reality even more when we veer away from the tarmac, take a sandy road less traveled, and wind up on an island shoreline fringed by a breathtaking lagoon.

Sun filters through stained panes of the island’s oldest church, Cook Islands Christian Church.

“This has gotta be as close to Eden as it gets,” I whisper in awe, while gazing over the aquatic wonder that boasts every imaginable shade of turquoise. “All aboard to Paradise, ladies and gents,” comes a command.

Instead of wearing traditional naval gear, our pontoon boat captain is decked out in Polynesian florals. And though the voyage to the island of Akitua is only five minutes long, the venture adds to the Swiss Family Robinson feel.

We disembark on the pedestrian-only Akitua Island, home of The Aitutaki Lagoon Resort & Spa, the sole property on the island. Billowy palms, like watchtower sentinels, line the pristine beachfront and throw shade over the tropical flora. The resort takes up only a small portion of the island’s 27 lush acres, and its location offers us the best view of the Aitutaki Lagoon.

After slathering up with SPF 50 sunscreen, we splash in the glorious Pacific, kayak to neighboring islands and take a snorkeling tour to probe for treasures beneath.

I feel like Thor Heyerdahl, the Norwegian explorer and anthropologist who ventured from South America to Polynesia on his balsa-wood raft, when hopping aboard the Kon-Tiki–like catamaran. The infamous Cap’n Bligh and his mutinous men once sailed in these waters.

The ride is a glide and the vistas are gorgeous. Tropical motus (islets) that fringe the surreal surface are linked together by a strand of reef, like a necklace of emerald gems. The aqueous setting is stunning, and I look forward to seeing what lurks below.

“The reef keeps flesh-loving predators away,” I’m told by our burly, pony-tailed guide after we anchor, “and even if the occasional barracuda slips by, they only go for glitter.” He reveals a toothy grin as I nervously don my mask and webbed feet. With haste, I remove my wedding ring and instruct my hubby to do the same. When he can’t get it off, I ask if our wills are complete. Then I submerge.

A Kon-Tiki-like catamaran takes the author on a tour of tropical motus (islets).

Shards of sunlight pierce the water’s surface, silhouetting colorful species that swarm within my vision; saucer-size angelfish, rainbow-scaled parrotfish and zillions of minnows. It’s a surreal intermingling, and as I float buoyantly in the tepid swells, I feel at one with the Pacific, free from any worldly cares, even barracudas.

Land-loving activities are also at our fingertips during our stay. We’re enticed with everything from coconut-palm climbing to Island Night, when hip-notic dancers keep the culture alive.

During an Aitutaki Island tour, we discover even more beauty behind the scenes. Although our guide goes by Rey, his full name is Retire. And while exploring this laidback destination, I can’t think of a more suitable name.

Swaying coconut palms throw shade over hills and valleys overflowing with vibrant flora. Manicured yards host cyclone-proof cinderblock homes, where wide-eyed children look curiously as we pass, smiling and waving.

Sun-baked burial plots dot most yards, and we learn that love for family members continues long after they pass. More tombstones can be found next to the oldest island church, Cook Islands Christian Church, built by missionaries, in 1823. Sun filters through stained panes onto intricately etched motifs and reflect off the raised pulpit where, every Sunday, the preacher gives praise in the Maori tongue.

“We have more churches than people,” Rey jests, as we cruise the roughly 9-mile-long (14km) string of islands. “There are 1,400 residents and no secrets,” he contentedly chuckles. Rey’s lived on Aitutaki all his life, and when he speaks about his country and culture, it’s with pride. “Money’s not an issue. We own our land, grow and catch our food, and get water from the clouds. Life is simple. Simple is best.”

It’s obvious that Cook Islanders march to the tempo of a different drummer. No big-box stores, fast-food chains, or even traffic lights. It’s clear which of us has the right idea.

On Aitutaki Island, wide-eyed children smile when we pass.

The climax of our tour is an island summit. Although small potatoes in comparison to our hills back home, it surpasses the most scenic postcard. Variegated shades of blue, from pale and limpid to vibrant aquamarine, stretch to the horizon. And snuggled up at one end is our home away from home, our fairy tale–like treasure island of Akitua, where over the next few days we simply retire.

If You Go

Cook Island Tourism

www.cook-islands.com

The Aitutaki Lagoon Resort & Spa

www.aitutakilagoonresort.com

The answer: Nantucket Island.

Those in the know have, for years, headed to this island in the Atlantic some 30 miles (48 km) south of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Though the 10,000 year-round island population swells to 55,000 in high season, Nantucket has remained amazingly unspoiled, with over a third of the island’s moors and marshland protected from development.

The island had a large Wampanoag Indian population until it was sold to nine Englishmen in 1659. In the early 1700s, Quakers moved onto the island to avoid persecution, and whalers soon found it an ideal center for whaling activities; it was a whaling center until the late 1830s. Today’s island residents are delighted to share their island with others and show off its charms.

The Brant Point Lighthouse, on Nantucket Harbor, is America’s second-oldest light station.

Compact in size — 14 miles (23 km) long and 3½ miles (6 km) wide at its broadest point — “the gray lady of the sea,” so named by sailors because of its fog-bound shores, can easily be reached by ferry or airplane. Yet once you’re here, the rest of the world seems far away “in America,” as locals refer to their visits to the mainland.

Memorial Day weekend is the harbinger of Nantucket’s high season, when summer cottage-dwellers and tourists flock here to revel in the island’s history, architecture, one-of-a-kind shops, fine weather and outdoor activities.

Guided walking tours provide an excellent introduction to the town of Nantucket and its busy harbor area, and are a good way to get your bearings. Cobblestone streets shaded by elms are lined with graceful 18th- and 19th-century homes — here a brick mansion, there a lush pocket garden and everywhere boxwood hedges, white picket fences and rampant roses.

Quakers, who first arrived in 1700 to escape persecution on the mainland, and businessmen who profited from the whaling trade — in the 1830s Nantucket was one of the busiest whaling ports in the world — built exquisite houses here that range in style from traditional saltbox and Federal, to Greek Revival and Georgian.

Even after a disastrous fire ravaged the town in 1846, Nantucket still possessed more than 800 pre–Civil War structures. Many homes have a lively historical lineage, which a witty guide will share with you; they’ll likely also share gossip about numerous famed writers who have answered the island’s siren call.

Truman Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Robert Lowell, John Steinbeck, Sinclair Lewis, Henry David Thoreau and Ralph Waldo Emerson all came here. Herman Melville actually based his novel, Moby Dick, on a true story that took place in 1820 when the Nantucket whaling ship Essex was sunk by a whale. Hemingway visited, with his mother, in 1910. Playwrights Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams also stayed on Nantucket, in summer cottages.

Down on Nantucket Harbor, where the passenger and car ferries arrive, the bay is awash in fancy yachts, working fishing craft, speedboats, sailboats, charter fishing boats and cruise boats that take visitors out past the stalwart Brant Point Lighthouse — the second-oldest light station in America — and sprawling cliff-top summer homes.

There’s nothing shabby about Nantucket, which is handsomely maintained and overflowing with flowers — in boxes, planters and pots. Straight, Old South and Commercial wharfs jut out into the harbor, and are lined with cozy rental cottages and a dizzying array of shops selling everything from designer clothes and less-expensive summer wear, to antiques and toys.

There are several restaurants here, too, where you can tuck into lobster dinners while enjoying great views of watercraft en masse, circling seabirds and commercial fishermen bringing in their catch.

Clothing, fashioned in the distinctive tomato-soup shade called “Nantucket Red,” is popular with locals and tourists alike, as are traditional Nantucket lightship baskets. These elegant rattan handbags can run hundreds to thousands of dollars.

There are more than 800 pre–Civil War homes and buildings on Nantucket.

There is no better place to find authentic lightship baskets — traditional vessels tightly woven of rattan — than the impressive Whaling Museum, recently renovated, at a cost of $15 million.

Whaling was Nantucket’s lifeblood for 150 years, and inside the museum you will encounter a dazzling assemblage of all things to do with that hazardous enterprise.

A 46-foot-long (14 m) sperm whale skeleton is visually stunning. There’s also a fully rigged whaleboat, a gallery containing a world-famous collection of scrimshaw (intricately carved or inscribed designs on whale teeth and ivory), and a host of exotic treasures Nantucket sailors brought back from South Seas ports. There’s an excellent museum shop, daily interpretive talks and a rooftop observation deck from which you can gaze down on the bustling harbor so vital to early whalers.

The First Congregational Church tower affords a splendid view, as well, of not only the town and harbor, but much of the island.

Outside of Nantucket town, cozy inlets, lovely beaches and more than 1,300 acres of moor and marshland — chockablock with wildflowers, heather and holly — spread in low-lying, gray-green splendor.

Hamlets color the landscape; one of the most historic and quaint is Siasconset — referred to by most as “Sconset” — located at the east end of the island.

Everything is hobbit-size here, for ‘Sconset blossomed in the 17th century when Nantucket fishermen traveled out to fish for whales and cod. They threw up shacks for shelter during their stay. But the wives soon followed along, and closet-size bedrooms called “warts” were tacked on.

As improvements and additions were made, ‘Sconset became a community of weathered, gray-shingled abodes, with those ubiquitous roses rambling everywhere, even on the sloping roofs.

Around 1900, ‘Sconset caught the fancy of New York City stage performers. They loved the tiny cottages and easy lifestyle and, to ‘Sconset’s good fortune, worked hard to preserve the town as it was originally created.

Continuing north, you’ll reach the entrance to the luxurious Wauwinet Inn and the 1,117-acre (4.5 km²) Coskata-Coatue Wildlife Sanctuary. Motorists can’t travel beyond an information booth here, unless they’re in a 4-wheel-drive vehicle. (Plenty of rentals are available in town, or you can join a naturalist-led refuge tour).

The wildlife sanctuary forms the island’s jauntily flipping whale’s tail, and is home to the Great Point Lighthouse, superb surf-casting waters, miles of white-sand beaches and rare flora and bird life.

In the fall, the crowds are gone, the days are surprisingly warm with cool nights, hotels and restaurants are still in operation, and the locals — now less harried — are even happier to share their island sanctuary with you.

The Coskata-Coatue Wildlife Sanctuary is a popular place to surf cast for striped bass.

There’s a lot of hoopla each October as the annual Nantucket Chowder Contest gets into full swing, and local restaurants vie fiercely for the award. You, too, can enjoy the fruits of this light-hearted contest, washed down with a good local beer called Whale’s Tale Pale Ale, produced by Cisco Brewers, the only brewery on Nantucket.

After all, there’s lots of time to enjoy the delights of this island gem before you have to cross the sea “back to America.”

If You Go

Nantucket Historical Association
www.nha.org

Nantucket Island Chamber of Commerce
www.nantucketchamber.org

Nantucket Island Information Center
www.allnantucket.com

In a country where items like snake blood and dog tails are occasional menu choices, ca phe chon, or weasel coffee, is in a class all its own. Coffee growers feed coffee beans to weasels, and after the beans pass through the animal, they are collected, ground and brewed. The process gives the coffee a musky, smooth flavor.

Hoan Kiem Lake is rimmed with cafes and shops, making it a perfect place to spend the morning.

Derisively dismissed by some Westerners as “rodent roast” or even “crappuccino,” the expensive brew is a winner in the upmarket cafes that are fast replacing Vietnam’s traditional streetside tea stalls.

Eager to experiment, I figured there was no better place to track down the traditional brew than among the narrow streets of Hanoi’s Old Quarter. The area has been bustling since the 13th century, when Hanoi’s guilds established a commercial section near the Red River and Hoan Kiem Lake in central Hanoi.

Each street begins with the word hang (merchandise), followed by the name of the item traditionally sold on that street. There is everything from Tin Street to Ghost Money Street to Coffin Street.

Some streets are former shells of themselves: Hang Vai (Bamboo Street) has only a few stacks of bamboo to distinguish itself, while other streets have created new identities in response to the changing needs of shoppers.

Hang Hanh, or Coffee Street, formerly called Onion Street, has undergone an aromatic transformation, becoming a favorite stop for those craving a jolt of caffeine.

Businessmen heading to work, backpackers consulting Lonely Planet guides and hip motorbiking locals all head to this narrow street where onion stalls have become coffeehouses.

As I made my way across Hang Gai (Silk Street), young women perched on Honda Dream motorbikes wove through traffic, their white silk ao dai tunics tucked safely beneath them, while bells clanged incessantly from rickshaws that veered past bicycles laden with live chickens.

Finally, I reached Coffee Street and, in the quiet narrow alley where almond trees spread their wide branches and the fragrance of sua blossoms brushed away the traffic fumes, I sat on a patio and imagined I’d been transported into Vietnam’s historic past, when colonialism reigned.

A xiclo, or rickshaw driver, can take you to the hidden alleyways and quiet side streets of traditional Hanoi.

For over 50 years, Hanoi, the capital of French Indochina, shimmered as one of the jewels of the French colonial empire.

Thousands of French administrators, merchants and artists lived on Hanoi’s shaded streets, and traces of their legacy can still be felt in the faded colonial architecture and, of course, strong French coffee.

Today, women with conical hats still carry produce in baskets borne on shoulder poles past street vendors serving bowls of pho soup from boiling vats on the sidewalk.

And yet cell phones compete with roadside barbers for attention. This modern influence reflects the changes sweeping the country.

Trung Nguyen café capitalizes on the Vietnamese’s nostalgia for their romantic past. Since it opened in 1996, the country’s first franchise has expanded to more than 1,000 locations by marketing a chic Vietnamese identity.

It’s an image that combines the sensuous colonial past of French Indochina with traditional Vietnamese flavors, such as that of its signature blend, weasel coffee. With expansion underway to Tokyo and overseas markets, this company hopes to redefine consumer tastes.

But the taste may be too unusual for some.

Earlier, Bao, the young desk clerk at my hotel, had looked shocked at my intended coffee plans, and disclosed that, historically, villagers followed the little carnivores, gathering their droppings by hand.

A far cry from the barista serving staff at Starbucks back home, I thought.

“The digestion and excretion process enhances the taste of the beans,” he explained. He added that nowadays, the beans never see a rodent’s innards, and instead go through a synthetic process that simulates the effects of a journey through the weasel’s digestive tract. Or perhaps so proponents of the brew say, I mused.

“Perhaps Madame might prefer a cappuccino?” Bao suggested helpfully, as I headed out.

Later, reflecting on Bao’s words as I scanned the menu at the cafe, I found doubts about the evacuation process tiptoeing through my mind.

“How do I know if it is authentic?” I asked the server, hoping for the synthetic non-droplet version. The server just shrugged.

Deciding that perhaps I didn’t really want a coffee after all, I settled for juice and a croissant.

I guess you could say that I weaseled out.

The Win Hotel is located on tree-lined Hang Hanh (Coffee Street) in the heart of Hanoi’s Old Quarter.

If You Go

Dak-Linh Café, Hoan Kiem Lake. This outdoor café is nestled among the trees on the southwest shore of the lake. The tables offer a view of badminton matches, tai chi exercisers and, after nightfall, young Vietnamese couples whispering softly to each other over candlelight.

Trung Nguyen Café, 61 Pho Dinh Tien Hoang. Get your weasel coffee at Vietnam’s answer to Starbucks. Its flagship Hanoi location is beside Hoan Kiem Lake. Among its nine “creative” varieties you can be guaranteed a taste of some of Vietnam’s best coffee.

Café Nhan, 23 Pho Bao Khanh. Situated on Hanoi’s main nightlife strip and popular with young Hanoians, Café Nhan offers quiet rooms for large groups, private nooks for courting couples and breezy balconies for people-watchers.

Au Lac, 57 Pho Ly Thai To. Located near the prestigious Sofitel Metropole hotel in the French quarter, Au Lac is the sort of place where guests can imagine themselves circa 1954 or as an extra in the film The Quiet American.

Win Hotel, 34 Hang Hanh. This mini-hotel right on Coffee Street can help you keep the caffeine buzz going night and day. Rooms start at $20 a night, and include breakfast with a view of the street action and, of course, strong coffee. Reservations can be made directly, or through www.Vietnamstay.com.

Vietnam National Administration of Tourism

www.vietnamtourism.com

Riding young horses, particularly ones that were stallions only six months ago, is not something I like. I am an intermediate rider, but had spent most of last year out of the saddle whilst I recovered from major cancer surgery. I really wasn’t at my most confident.

I had traveled to this remote part of the Andalusia region (about an hour’s drive north of the regional capital Seville) for a five-day horseback riding vacation with Spirit of Andalusia, run by British couple Natalie Blake and Richard Askew. I had always wanted to visit the medieval city of Seville and to combine that trip with another of my passions ― horseback riding. Spirit of Andalusia offered just that: A week riding and a weekend in magnificent Seville.

Natalie and Richard had started their operation in the beautiful and protected part of rural Seville province only 18 months prior to my visit. They offer riding vacations from their farm for most of the year except the summer months, when it is far too hot for man or beast. Natalie is a highly qualified, experienced horsewoman who clearly adores her eight Iberian horses.

Sue Cockburn Bowyer and the Andalusion horse Biko.

Iberians are the indigenous horses of the Iberian Peninsula, bred for strength, courage, intelligence, power and fine temperament. They are often used to fight bulls and to work with cattle. Historically they were the battle horse of choice. I had not booked any riding lessons, but Natalie is open to arranging personalized itineraries for clients, if discussed in advance.

Richard, amongst many other talents, makes the fantastic picnic lunches we gorged ourselves on each day. Their farmhouse accommodation hadn’t yet been built, so we stayed in a traditional casa rural, a small family-owned hotel in the heart of the village of Almaden.

Our accommodation was lovely. Very simple, homey and very Spanish, with a courtyard, olive trees, terracotta tiles and whitewashed walls. Each morning, Richard picked my friend Ann and me up in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. He took us for breakfast in one of the village bars, and then drove us down the dusty tracks to the farm.

And so, I had to face Biko. But my anxiety was short-lived. Biko is an Andalusian. There is some dispute about the definition of an Andalusian horse, but the term is usually used to refer to an Iberian horse that was bred in Andalusia.

Their qualities are comparable to the Iberians ― strong, gentle, intelligent, fast and powerful. Biko had slender limbs and a strong muscled body as one would expect from his breed. He was delightful and kind; so I fell in love with him immediately.

The daily treks were varied and interesting, some challenging, some leisurely. We crossed rivers, rode farm tracks, old mule tracks, rocky tracks, dusty tracks, woods, gorges, mountain tracks, and part of the Camino Santiago de Compostela ― an important pilgrim’s way.

Our routes took us through the shady cork-oak forests of the Sierra Norte, part of Spain’s longest mountain range (Sierra Morena), which separates Andalusia from the rest of Spain. Here we saw the prized black Iberian pigs that feast solely on acorns, to olive groves where sun-beaten farmers were tending their crop the traditional way ― with a spade and scythe.

The views from the top of each hill we climbed were breathtaking. One perfect evening we cantered through the cork-oak forest, over little gullies and ditches, dodging the low branches of ripening acorns, the air warm and the sunlight mellowing to a gentle golden glow.

The Andalusian countryside is open and peaceful.

The Andalusian countryside was beautiful ― parched to gold and unbelievably peaceful. This is the stuff that feeds the soul!

Birdsong, our horses’ hooves, and the occasional barking of hunting dogs echoing across the valley were often the only sounds we heard. Sometimes there would be a goat bleat, a deep bovine moo, or the excited whinnying of another horse on hearing us approach.

Almost everyone appeared to own a horse. Horsemanship is a huge part of the culture in this area of Spain, as is bullfighting (some horses are used for training the bulls) and flamenco dancing.

Andalusia is a poor area of Europe, and horses are actually still used as a means of transportation for some people. We even found one horse “parked” outside our pension one morning!

The horses were a pleasure to ride and virtually bombproof. We galloped over farmland with farm dogs snapping at our heels, shuffled down steep descents and strode up long ascents. We trotted passed hunting kennels, sending whole packs of dogs into frenzied barking, alerting shy wild deer to our presence in the Parque Forestal, one of Spain’s many National Parks.

We wandered over pastures where goats and toffee-colored cows either scattered on seeing us, or looked up at us with lazy curiosity.

After a hard morning’s riding in the Spanish sun, what lunch could be better than perfectly chilled gazpacho, crusty bread, warm tortilla, and Tinto Verano (an Andalusian summer-drink of Rioja wine and lemonade), followed by a shaded siesta under a giant oak tree?

Natalie personally trains all her horses and they all have superb manners. They are fit, responsive and very, very happy, with acres on which to run about, including a pond to splash in at the end of the day.

I have never seen horses so relaxed and joyful, rolling in the summer dust each evening after a cooling dip in their pond. Even sick Shorty had a roll ― an encouraging sign. At the end of each day we eagerly helped out with un-tacking, (you can do as much or little as you wish!). We washed down our horses and helped feed them.

Our informal evenings were spent at cozy restaurants and bars in the village, eating alongside the locals under the stars. The menus were local and seasonal, and always featured the Andalusian speciality of jamon ― the ham made from the acorn-feeding pigs we encountered on our daily horse treks.

With over 3,000 years of history, Andalusia’s capital of Seville is full of culture, with hidden surprises around every corner.

We ended our trip with the promised two days in Seville ― the capital city of Andalusia. With over 3,000 years of history, it is a beautiful, magnificent, romantic, Baroque and Moorish City, with fantastic shops and plenty of culture, arts, museums, cathedrals and ancient buildings for those who like sightseeing.

Down cobbled streets are amazing hidden churches. There is a huge bull ring, numerous bars and restaurants, as well as green spaces. Transport around the city is in horse-drawn carriages or air-conditioned tourist buses.

We took that option in the 111 F (44 C) heat. The best end to the day was to watch the sun go down over Seville’s Guadalquivir River, casting its romantic pink haze over the city.

If You Go

The Sierra Norte is part of Spain’s longest mountain range, the Sierra Morena, which separates Andalusia from the rest of the country. Other cities well worth a visit in Andalusia besides Seville are Jerez (where sherry comes from), Cadiz, Cordoba and Granada.

The pension where we stayed was part of the tour package. Future guests will stay at the farm when the farmhouse is built.

Spirit of Andalusia
www.spirit-of-andalucia.co.uk

Sevilla Tourist Guide
www.aboutsevilla.com

Tourist Office of Spain
www.spain.info

That is why I’m stretched out on a narrow bunk bed on the night train, its rails clicking and clanking with a familiarity that will soon lull me to sleep. We’re rushing through the Swiss countryside, where I’ve been working this past week, and the Alps are a thick blur in the darkness. In a few hours, we’ll cross the border and make our way across the tiny, key-shaped country of Austria. Then in the early morning, we’ll reach Vienna, the place that I’ve been missing.

Below me in the lower bunk, my 10-year-old daughter is fast asleep, snug and content in the miniscule cocoon that is her bed for the night. I’m eager to share this adventure with her, to show her a part of myself that she may not know.

With air travel so cheap in Europe now, we could have flown to the Austrian capital for the same cost. But it only seemed right to return to Vienna by rail. After all, this is how I first came to know the former imperial city, when I was just another American kid schlepping a backpack through the train stations of Europe.

It’s funny how one decision can make such a difference, how a country I had barely even heard of could alter the path of my life.

Vienna is famous for its coffeehouse culture. Pictured here is Café Central, one of the author’s favorite haunts.

I had planned to study abroad in Spain, where I have relatives and could understand a bit of the language. But then a friend dragged me on a two-week trip through Europe, and I came face-to-face with Vienna and a boy named Richard. I was instantly infatuated with both of them.

So Spain was forgotten, and I landed in Austria six months later at age 20 with three suitcases and two months of German study under my belt. I was to attend an American university in the Austrian capital, but it was the culture here that intrigued me.

Vienna is known as the city of music and for its famous coffeehouse culture. Many visitors, however, forget the town’s royal past. Yet, it’s from this unique viewpoint that this city of two million is best understood. For nearly 640 years, Vienna served as the heart of the mighty Austro-Hungarian Empire. The ruling family, the Habsburgs, stretched the fingers of their rule from Austria to Hungary, and even into what is now the Czech Republic. The royal family built beautiful palaces; ordered court composers (like Mozart) to write dramatic music; and ate the royal pastries that were invented just for them.

When the empire fell after World War I, the remnants of this imperial heritage remained. It lives on in the regal air of Vienna’s citizens, the haughty atmosphere in many cafés and restaurants and the highly-regarded arts and cultural scene.

World War II also left its mark on the city. The wounds still run deep from those shameful times, but five decades have passed, bringing new understanding and knowledge. After WWII, Europe was divided up between the Soviets and the West. While Czechoslovakia, Hungary and even parts of Germany were pulled into the Eastern Bloc, Austria was allowed to be “neutral,” a fragile outpost of Western thought walking gingerly at the doorstep of communism.

That is the Austria I met when I arrived in 1987. I have a photo at home from that first week in Vienna. In it, I am smiling, wide-eyed and naïve, open to whatever the city sends my way. And in the background, in the gray skies and the busy sidewalks of Mariahilfestrasse, Vienna stands wary, caught between East and West.

Locals enjoy a quiet evening at a Viennese wine garden.

There is a Hungarian Lada driving past in a blur, a microwave strapped to the roof, rushing back across the border which may or may not be open tomorrow.

In the right hand corner of the photo, there is a weary old woman with a cane, wearing a coat of green Austrian wool, moving slowly across the cobblestone. And there in the corner, way off to the side, is a group of teens, not quite sure of their place in this city or even the world, but enjoying a smoke all the same.

We are all in transition in the photo, but we just don’t know it.

Vienna’s angst at being pulled between East and West was soon to find relief. That year marked the beginning of the end for the Eastern Bloc. The Hungarian fence would soon come down, and two years later, the Berlin Wall would fall. Europe was on a road of change, and Austria would soon be swept up in the current.

As for me, I was about to begin the journey that every foreigner feels when they move to a new country. At first, everything about Vienna delighted me — the quaint, narrow streets that made me feel as if I were walking into another century; the city’s distinct aroma of humid air, ancient buildings, fresh bread, cigar smoke and coffee — all mixed up together; the slow pace of life that allowed me to savor one glass of wine all afternoon in a restaurant; the tiny grocery stores with aisles that were only two people wide; the reserved Austrians who greeted each other politely when they arrived and left; and the aloof waiters who served me with flair and style.

It was all new and fascinating and amazingly wonderful. I wrote long letters home to my parents detailing each delightful discovery.

But the letters began to change as the city’s newness began to wear on my resolve. Used to open faces and quick smiles, I began to long for friendly stranger faces; the constant cigarette smoke made me gag; the narrow alleyways seemed confining and I longed for open spaces; Viennese pretensions got on my nerves; the tiny groceries didn’t carry enough products; and oh, the language struggles! The short German course I had taken was useless. The Viennese spoke a different dialect and I couldn’t understand a darn word they said.

All these feelings, I learned later, were a part of culture shock, the second phase that many foreigners go through. It was as if I were standing outside of Vienna, my nose pressed against the glass, watching those inside and wanting to come in, but not knowing how.

Even coffee is served with style in Vienna. Pictured here is a local favorite: a mélange and Sacher torte.

As is often the case when one has a problem, help came to me from a friend — several of them, in fact.

Richard, the handsome young man who had drawn me to the city, turned out to be only a friend, but a good friend indeed. He showed me his favorite haunts, and drilled me on my Austrian German, unrelenting when I couldn’t roll the Viennese letter “L” properly.

Still other friends came to light slowly. Compared to the American culture I grew up in, Austrians are quiet people, polite but often wary of strangers. You come to know them gently, one step at a time. But as one of my friends told me: “Once you have an Austrian friend, you have a friend for life.”

My new Austrian friends, it turns out, were the real treasure of Vienna. One of them was 15 years my elder; others years younger. But age never stops kindred souls from understanding each other. My friends welcomed me into their homes and lives. And through their eyes, I came to understand this city in her own way.

Vienna, I came to see, is a grand old lady with a reserved spirit and genteel manners. She will never jump into your face with welcome, but beckon quietly, gracious and waiting.

For example, to an outsider Viennese waiters may appear snooty and aloof. Sometimes this is the case, but often, it’s an air of pride and refinement. Dignity can be found in small things, such as serving a cup of coffee on a silver tray with spoon and sugar set perfectly to the side, while addressing your customer as gnädige Frau (gracious lady).

It was just one of the lessons this city had to teach me.

When I arrived in Vienna, I didn’t like coffee, wine, waltzing, classical music or political discussions. Yet one by one, these bastions of Austrian culture became a norm in my life. I spent long leisurely afternoons in my favorite cafés, lingering over a Wiener mélange (a cross between a cappuccino and latte) and a thick piece of chocolate Sacher torte, discussing politics and the meaning of life with friends.

In the rooms of a former palace, I learned to waltz in a long blue gown to the music of Strauss, confident in the arms of my partner.

Vienna’s First District pulses with life.

Warm summer evenings were spent drinking g’spritzte (white wine and mineral water) at Mayer am Pfarrplatz, our favorite wine garden in the hills of Vienna. And as the months wore on, I began to tolerate — then actually enjoy — classical music.

How could I not?

My university was right across from the music conservatory, and each school kept their windows open. While I studied international relations with professors from the United Nations, I heard hour after hour of classical music. Even the street musicians play Mozart and Beethoven in Vienna. This is, after all, the city of music.

Most of all, I found a new perspective in Austria. The world is much bigger than the neighborhood where you live, the country you were born in. And when you live in a place wedged between two opposing powers, this becomes even more obvious.

When I returned to America two years later, I was a different person. I had come of age in the Austrian capital, and though still a foreigner, Vienna had become a part of me.

But almost 24 years have passed since then, and as the train nears the station, I become a bit nervous. Will Vienna have changed as much as I have? Austria is now part of the European Union. The schilling has been replaced by the Euro; it is a whole new economy.

But I needn’t have worried. My Viennese friend, Nicole, is there to greet us at the station. I’m thrilled to find that the city still feels like home, no matter how long I’ve been away. It smells the same and the sounds haven’t changed. The streetcars have a fresh coat of paint and there are new stores along the streets, but I see the same faces and mannerisms, the culture that has stood here for centuries.

And yet, there is something different.

Vienna seems brighter, newer, pulsating with life. Though she has added years to her age, the city looks younger and wealthier. (If only that applied to me!)

The EU looks good on Vienna. There seem to be more products, better prices, better service. New trendy restaurants have popped up all over town; chic boutiques and shops line the avenues. Youth is everywhere — hip colors, bold music and the latest fashion — yet all done with that typical Austrian sense of style.

I see that vibrant pulse best on the Mariahilfestrasse, a well-known shopping street that had once been filled with second-rate stores and tired restaurants. It had been one of the more affordable shopping areas in the city, and I had spent many hours there as a student.

But it looks like a whole new neighborhood now. From the balcony of our elegant suite at the chic Hotel Das Tyrol, my daughter and I watch the street below. The sidewalks are filled with shoppers loaded down with bags from Swedish clothiers, Italian shoe shops and French designers — companies from all over Europe. It’s a whole new experience.

We spend the week with friends, visiting my favorite haunts, hiking in the Vienna Woods, having mélange at Café Central and shopping in the First District. I show my daughter where I used to live and I tell her stories of my time here. We visit the new MuseumsQuartier, where she plays at the children’s museum and practices her Viennese words, sounds she has heard since birth, though often in my American-accented tongue.

We marvel over the art at the Liechtenstein Museum and get sick on the rides at the Prater amusement park. And, all the time, we are with friends, the same friends who came to my rescue  years ago.

On our last night in Wien, my friend Torsten takes me to Do&Co, a fashionable restaurant on the top of Haas Haus across from St. Stephen’s Cathedral in the heart of Vienna. The summer air is warm, so we sit outside, the light from the church drifting across St. Stephen’s Square below. I can see clear across the rooftops of Vienna, and below us, the city moves like tiny ants at our feet.

“So much in Vienna has changed,” I muse, “and yet, it still seems the same, don’t you think?”

Torsten, who is in mid-bite, simply nods at my contradictory statement. He knows what I mean, for Vienna is a city of contradictions. We spend the evening looking out over the Austrian capital, marveling over the wonders and pitfalls of the EU and the difference the years can make, not only in a country but in our own lives.

All the while, our waitress has been dashing about, serving table after table, but basically ignoring us. Finally, Torsten beckons for another coffee. The woman nods, barely acknowledging our existence. Yet minutes later, a coffee appears with elegant presentation. Then before we can thank her, the waitress is gone again. And then I know for sure that I’m back in Vienna.

If You Go

Austrian Tourist Office
www.austria.info

Vienna Tourism
www.vienna.info

Rail Europe
www.raileurope.com

It reminds me of the no-holds-barred passion I grew up with.

Like Moonstruck, about an Italian-American bookkeeper (Cher) who is supposed to marry an older guy, but then falls for his brother (Cage), my childhood on the Jersey Shore was full of first-generation emigrants from southern Italy — those folks who brought to America great things like pizza, sfogliatelle (ricotta-filled puff pastry) and my personal favorite: high-volume emotional outbursts.

A corner market in Naples’ Spanish Quarter overflows with produce.

It’s a behavior style I never see at home in Los Angeles. Here, if a guy says “I love you” right after he meets you, the gal smiles sweetly and suggests medication.

That’s why it was so refreshing to go to the source of the noisy passion I was weaned on: Naples, Italy.

It was all so familiar from the moment I hit the street. There they were: lookalikes of those broad, expressive faces and hands flying through the air that entertained me as a kid.

At the caffè, I order a cappuccino and BAM! Even before my milk is steamed, the show begins with shouts of “No, NO!” from the caffè owner. He waves his arms in protest against a pleading gentleman in a suit. Signore Suit simply wants to leave something behind the counter: a live, wriggling eel. The eel, after all, is in a bag; he’d just bought it from the fish cart outside.

Thick, open-palmed “No” hands debate pinched “per favore (please)” fingers. Nothing like my quiet L.A. Starbucks, where hands only move to click laptops and cell phones.

And I definitely know I’m not in Los Angeles when I get to the playground and there are no mommies calmly offering their children choices: “Kyle you can either get in the car immediately or have a time-out.” No, here in the piazza exasperated mammas yell, “Aldo, vieni quà (come here)!” Aldo keeps kicking his soccer ball until Mamma grabs him by the collar and drags him to the bus.

Even the trattoria cook is a lookalike of those broad, expressive faces that entertained me as a kid.

Later, at the trattoria, our waiter, Marco, stands at my table and bellows: “Spaghetti, gnocchi!” He’s not angry, just passionate about pasta. This is no Beverly Hills lunch spot, where waiters whisper specials like “Pan-seared ahi tuna over papaya coulis,” as if it were a rare disease.

Outside, I join a crowd gathered for a puppet show starring Pulcinella, a classical character of Neapolitan puppet theater. We watch the rascal clown declare his love for a wide-eyed signorina puppet. Pulcinella goes in for a kiss, she grabs a baseball bat and whacks poor “Puch” mercilessly.

It’s the cartoon version of Cher’s “Snap out of it” slap in Moonstruck. As we all laugh, a teenager on a Vespa bursts through the crowd to speed down an alley. Startled, all of us grown-ups lift our arms: “AY!”

I catch my reflection in a bakery window. That’s me: hands raised, mouth open, with all the other five-foot-tall (1.52 m), olive-skinned ladies. I’ve become a member of the chorus in the land of my ancestors. It feels fantástico.

If You Go

Italian Tourism Board
www.enit.it

It’s easy to love Bonhomme, the mascot of Carnaval de Québec, the largest winter carnival in the world. The annual event starts the last weekend of January and continues for two weeks.

Loosely translated, the “good man” from Québec is the living incarnation of the snowmen that have enchanted Québec’s children for generations.

Bonhomme delights the crowd. Photo by Carnaval de Québec

Bonhomme has been the event’s ambassador since 1955, when the carnival was first celebrated in Québec. He heralds the countless pleasures of winter in a historic city that is blanketed with European panache.

Each year, more than a million participants converge for a celebration that makes the cold of winter downright fun for everyone. I stayed warm with a plethora of activities to choose from.

The festivities start with a grand opening ceremony. There are musical celebrations of “fire and ice,” night parades, sled runs, snow-sculpture events and figure skating shows. The brave can even take a “snow bath,” clad only in a bathing suit.

Or you can participate in horse-drawn sleigh or dogsled rides, skijoring competitions — in which skiers are pulled by horses — snow rafting and ice fishing on the Plains of Abraham, a 264-acre (1 km2) site that was developed by the National Battlefields Commission to commemorate the battles that were fought in Québec.

There was never a dull moment. As I hung my fishing pole over one of several holes in the ice, I did not wait long for the gentle tug that told me I had snagged dinner. After friendly event staff helped unhook my 8-inch (20 cm) trout, I noticed a sign that asked for donations to a local food shelter; this is where my fish went.

My friend and I, however, made our way to a sugar shack for a maple treat. We tasted taffy on snow while reminiscing about the 1963 pop-rock song Sugar Shack, by Jimmy Gilmer and the Fireballs. “So this is what it’s all about,” I mused silently as I enjoyed my sweet treat.

My favorite was probably the giant table soccer game in which I was tethered with my teammates to a horizontal pole, which served to unite our movements as well as punish our independence.

Lacking the agility of my younger team members, I more than compensated with a few clever blocks of the “foosball” — a large, but airy, ball that had a mind of its own. Unfortunately, we lost. But the belly laughter of all players and new friends more than assuaged the temporary sting of defeat.

The dog sled races are a popular event. Photo by Carnaval de Québec

Amid a sea of red ski jackets, I eagerly watched dogsled races in the street while sipping Caribou, a feisty alcoholic beverage blended from brandy, vodka, sherry and port that has been popular since the first carnival. It seems to me that it is more an acquired taste, but I confess that it grows on you, especially after you have downed a few.

Overlooking the Saint-Lawrence River, the Fairmont Le Châ teau Frontenac is not merely a hotel in the heart of Old Québec; the Frontenac evokes the quintessential mystique, romance and culture that mark a world-class city.

William Cornelius Van Horne, general manager of the Canadian Pacific Railway, began building the hotel for railroad travelers in the late 19th century. He hired New York architect Bruce Price, who drew on the architectural styles of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. The hotel was named after the flamboyant French governor Louis de Buade, count of Frontenac, who guided the New France colony from 1672 to 1698.

Numerous nobles and luminaries have stayed at the hotel, including King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, Princess Grace of Monaco, Charles de Gaulle, Ronald Reagan, Charles Lindberg, Alfred Hitchcock, Montgomery Clift. And now it was me who entered Québec’s famous hotel.

A gentleman sporting a handlebar mustache greeted me at the reception desk. Shortly after, I met a vintage-style hostess, “Rose.” Dressed in cherry red with a matching plumed hat, she can recite the history of Le Château Frontenac, relating tomes of interesting facts about this world-renowned landmark.

A weekend celebration of snow and ice in Québec is anything but cold. I was warmed by the friendliness and hospitality of this eclectic city and her people. Through the fog of my breath, I saw that everywhere there was a celebration of life, of the joy of living, or the “joie de vivre.” Embracing Bonhomme, I vowed to return.

If You Go

Le Carnaval de Québec (Winter Carnival)
866-4-CARNAVAL
www.carnaval.qc.ca

Québec City Tourism
418-641-6654
www.quebecregion.com

Destination Québec
www.bonjourquebec.com

Where to Stay in Quebec City

Fairmont Le Château Frontenac
418-692-3861 or 800-441-1414
www.fairmont.com/frontenac

Hilton sur Vieux-Québec
418-647-2411 or 800-HILTONS
www.hiltonquebec.com

Where to Eat in Quebec City

Restaurant Au Parmesan — Italian and French cuisine in Old World surroundings
418-692-0341
www.restoquebec.com/parmesan

Café Buade — try breakfast at the oldest restaurant in Québec City (since 1919)
418-692-3909

Restaurant la Crémaillère — gourmet cuisine in the heart of the old city
418-692-2216
www.cremaillere.qc.ca

VooDoo Grill — discover the delectable tastes and outstanding world cuisine of chef Carl Murray
418-647-2000
www.voodoogrill.com