Baedeker Spring 2023

BAEDEKER

Staff

President

SHUHE MA

Editor-in-Chief

JONNY ROTHBERG

Chief of Design

NATALIE OSMOND

Managing Staff

LILY ZHANG

BOHAN MA

ISA LAUCHENGCO

JOSEPH ROY

YILIN CHOI

POLINA TYURIKOVA

RAYMOND ZHOU

GEETIKA BANDLAMUDI

Editors

DERRIK RIVET

API DHADDA

EVA HOLWICK

HAILEY BALOUTCH

HOLLY KASE

JAY WOOD

STELLA C. SALOMONE

Photo Editors

LIV D’ALESSANDRO

RYAN PIZZARO

Layout Designers

MELANIE ZHANG

NATALIA BADGER

OONA ZHOU

ELLISON SPRINKLE

MICHELLE WAN

SAANVI JAIN

EVA HOLWICK

ELDAH ELIAS

SYDNEY TIESI

OLA KARASINSKA

What is travel?

To many, travel is a regular part of life: a job that demands travel or a lifestyle centered around it. To others, it is a luxury: something that is gradually saved up for and remembered fondly for a lifetime afterwards. But to us at Baedeker, travel is about improvement through experience: it is about meeting brilliant people who hail from one hundred countries and speak a thousand languages; it is about taking the time to learn their histories, their lives; it is about finding yourself in unique, absurd situations, and divining ways to deal with them in stride; it is ultimately about changing yourself by tasting, really tasting, the fruits that the world has to offer, whether that be in New York or New Caledonia.

The thing is, you can travel to remote, beautiful, expensive places for your entire life, and not come away with improvement to show for it. Sure, you’ll have stories to tell, but did you become truly more worldly? More cultured? Able to make friends across language barriers? Did you change your perspective on your own life, and become humbled by the enormity and fleetingness of the human experience? That is what travel is to Baedeker: improvement through experience, whatever those experiences are and wherever they may happen. How much you travel is measured inside of yourself, not through Delta Air Miles.

And that is why, as we begin a new chapter for Baedeker, we want to emphasize that the location of a story is not all that important. The format, too, is not important: a story, a poem, a packing list, a recipe. Whatever you saw, wherever you went, whomever you met. What’s important is the essence of travel: change. Improvement. A conversation over tea with Yintso, patron of a Tibetan décor shop three blocks from NYU, could be as meaningful as one with a Lama in faraway Dzongsar Monastery, if both have personal meaning and offer a chance for improvement.

With all that being said, get out there! Life is short, the world is wide, and you are human, endowed with all the capacities for personal change that being a human entails. Write anything! Go anywhere! Meet anyone! Get out there, traveler.

Jonny Rothberg, Editor-in-Chief Shuhe Ma, President

DESERT STARS

by TINA GE

They say the night sky tells stories. The fiery red eye of the East, in the constellation Taurus, is called ad-dabarān, the Follower. It is named as such because it follows on the heels of its lover, the cluster athThurayyā. Yet the star al-‘ayyūq prevents them from being together, condemning the follower to chase ath-Thurayyā across the sky for eternity.

Another star, al-Jawza’, was engaged to Suhayl, the second brightest star in the sky. Suhyal lived with his two sisters across the river, the Milky Way. On the day of the wedding, al-Jawza’ was found dead and Suhyal crossed the river with one of his sisters who was subsequently named the Shi’ra Who Crossed Over. The other sister stayed home and cried relentlessly and so she was named the Little BlearyEyed Shi’ra. She is said to shine less brightly because her eyes are filled with tears.

al-Jawza’, Suhayl, and his two sisters

Stories of love, longing, and loss are not just written in the sky. They are scattered in faces across this country—in the students at NYUAD, in the taxi drivers around the city, in workers at the mall. They can be found in couples strolling in the park or families playing on the beach. The narratives often center around labor migrants, people who have left their countries and loved ones to pursue dreams of financial stability and freedom. They are tales of faith, reflected in people who devote themselves to Islam in their own ways. To love something—a person, a dream, or a religion—and to fear losing it is distinctly human.

In journalism, they ask us to report on the newsworthy. We are tasked with finding stories in the chaos of New York, where something

newsworthy happens every second of the day. I’ve always thought that I needed to be in an environment like that to make it as a reporter. Yet in Abu Dhabi, I found out that some narratives are tied to the quiet, just as stars are married to darkness. Only in silence is there enough space for people to be vulnerable without fearing judgment or rejection. It is in the stillest of moments where they speak the loudest truths, openly and unabashedly.

I came to the UAE this spring looking for a change of pace. It is here where I discovered there are stories to be found everywhere, not only in the heartbeat of bustling streets in a city but also in the silence, in the infinite sky with constellations that hold millions of stories about love and loss.

Desert safari is a popular tourist attraction in the UAE, taking visitors dune bashing in an Arabian desert and stopping at a campsite for dinner. by TINA GE

Al Khatim Desert in Abu Dhabi

Little Guilin

by CAL GALICIA

Singapore, 2022

by WILLIAM MOON

Green replaced with gray. Towering tembusu hardwood replaced with sky-scraping metal trees. Grass replaced with concrete. And so it goes, as cities creep — inching their way towards every nook and cranny they can get their steel tendrils into. If you’ve lived in a city, you’ll be familiar with this phenomenon. Where once were rolling hills and clear blue skies are now vandalized sidewalks and a skyline choked with steel.

“I had known Singapore, but did I know its secrets?”

Over the winter break, on the last day of my time back in Singapore, I decided I wanted to spend it somewhere I’d never been before. Even after 13 years of living in the tiny island nation, there were still places I had yet to explore.

I thought back to a book I had flipped through during one of my many excursions to my favorite bookstore in the Lion City, Kinokuniya. It was titled Secret Singapore and I remembered that that had intrigued me.

I had known Singapore, but did I know its secrets?

Apparently not. There, buried in the middle of the book, was a sight I had never seen before — it was nature. And not nature in the sense of trees and grass and greenery, but nature in the sense that it looked untouched, undirtied, pristine.

Singapore Flyer Wheel

by CAL GALICIA

Little Guilin, the page said, A rare survivor of Singapore’s former natural hillocks.

I’d have to take the East-West and then the North-South lines to Bukit Gombak MRT — a little far from where I’d normally go, but it was my last day before I’d have to do the packing I’d been putting off and fly back to Manhattan, so why not?

The one-hour MRT ride gave me time to think. Staring out the window as the MRT rose out of the tunnels and onto an elevated track, I thought about Singapore. Only by wrenching the power out of nature’s hands could it have industrialized so quickly. And while it still held its rightful nickname as “The Garden City” — you’d be hard-pressed to find a road not lined with trees — it was still just a fraction of its original ecological glory. Was that a bad thing? The only way a country smaller than the five boroughs could sustain a population of over 5 million people would be to industrialize, to create groves of public housing rather than gardens, to replace the green with gray. Singapore had to do what it had to do.

Still, it was a sobering thought.

One hour on the train followed by a five-minute walk. At this point, however, my thoughts

Little Guilin

An Oasis in Singapore

had turned into doubts. Could such a place really exist in this country? Named after the original Guilin in Southern China, Little Guilin seemed so out of place. China has the room for looming karst cliffs — does Singapore? Yet, there it was, just as the book had said.

It was breathtaking. From my vantage point, the buildings were pushed to the side by nature and not the other way around. How often will you see that in Singapore? Unless you’re deep in the middle of Lim Chu Kang or the Central Water Catchment, the answer is not often.

While Little Guilin is a remnant of Singapore’s original granite cliffs, that’s not wholly true — it’s an abandoned quarry. Over time, rainwater filled the crater left behind and eventually formed what would become Bukit Batok Nature Park.

There’s a certain irony to the whole situation — a beautiful natural landmark, testimony to the green spirit of Singapore, was partially man-made. In fact, Bukit Batok translated to English means “coughing hills,” and a popular explanation for that nomenclature is the fact that the blasting of the granite quarries sounded like…coughs. Coughing, an early warning that something is wrong with the body, and in this case, a sign that the hills were dying as quarrymen gouged out parts of its body in a quest to industrialize a city barely 280 square miles. Yet, it seemed like here, deep in Central Singapore, the hills were very much alive, pushing the concrete urbanity away.

Sure, the lake was artificially and accidentally made, but the terrapins that call it home didn’t seem to care. Sure, the cliff was a remnant of ecological amputation, but the hawks that took flight from the trees atop it didn’t seem to care. Maybe the question wasn’t—or isn’t—green vs gray. Because in this pocket of nature in the heart of metropolitan Singapore, it seemed to me that it was green and gray, both working together to create a scene neither could hope to conjure up on their own.

And that scene truly was beautiful. The fragments of green, bold against the gray…

“Yet, it seemed like here, deep in Central Singapore, the hills were very much alive, pushing the concrete urbanity away.”

Lost in the Clouds Gardens by the Bay, Singapore Ascend into the cloud forest as you explore the hanging trees and cascading waters, all from the comfort of one of Asia’s foremost economic and cultural centers.

by ANDY SONG

Mists of Niagara

Niagara Falls, Canada

by ANDY FAN

Surface meltwater pours through a hole into the depths of the Vatnajokull Icecap, Europe’s largest glacier by landmass.

by WENDY ZHANG

Kiev

by DANIEL LYALIN

A bird flies, or the sparrow shot past. The bird is, as all things, nothing more than itself: a mere wind, the final hours of the long dawn.

The bridge, bereft of cars, is a body bereft of scars. Twisted contusions contort, in pink and yellow and red, bloated, fertile, and defiled, strange deformities for miles.

Now watch the eyes: the eyes that watch, and judge, and know. The eyes with age, aged far too long, their blue now blanched and decrepit, yet attentive, seeing, watching, all.

Iceland Ice Caves

By the Sea

by CLAIRE SOHN

By the sea is Busan, a city like no other. By the sea stands a row of great mountains—temples, the resting place of nature; valleys, where blushing camellias bloom. The crack of twigs and crunch of leaves that yield under hikers’ feet.

A breeze cuts through the blazing summer sun as I sit in the shade of the hinoki cypresses, surveying the glittering ocean in the distance. I breathe in the fresh air that Seoul does not have, the scent of fresh wildflowers mixing with the sea breeze. I wanted to get away from the cramped hustle of the capital, and— as my ancestors before me— escaped to the peace of Busan. My grandmother is excited to show me her home.

By the bay sit old fishing towns teeming with seafood and beaches—fish markets, open long before dawn; food stalls, bustling until the moon sets; tourists, baking in the sand under eternal sunshine. Voices mesh together under the dewy morning sky.

I walk past the crowds, stepping carefully to avoid the puddles of salt water as the smells of fresh skate and clams waft through the air. Never have I felt so starved. The market rests on the southernmost edge of the city, nestled in an alleyway that faces the sea. Oiled woks pop as vendors fry fish cakes and vegetables, and I start to wonder how much octopus

I can stuff myself with before I explode. My mouth waters and my grandmother laughs, her hazel eyes crinkling as she watches my cravings strengthen with each passing second.

By the sea is a city that stands larger than life—skyscrapers, glass mountains that tower over the markets; bridges and paths, connectors of the old town and new metropolis; museums, home to centuries of tales waiting to be told.

I wander through these centuries and find myself lost among the stories of long ago, where old stories come to life. I have never been a history buff, but there is something to be said about the paint strokes the masters made, the immaculately pruned gardens astride the buildings that beg me to stay, to learn the past and share the future. My grandmother smiles when I ask her about the call to the past. We pause in our path, and she regales me with stories of her childhood, when the museums had yet to host the lives of the old world and history was still waiting to be made.

By the sea is Busan, home of my grandmother. Part town and part city, new and old. Mountains and glass. By the sea is Busan, a city like no other.

Calm

해동용궁사 Haedong Yonggungsa Temple, Busan, South Korea

Located on the coast of the north-eastern portion of Busan, Haedong Yonggungsa Temple was first built in 1376, and reconstructed in 1970. It is still in use today by monks and locals alike.

by WENDY ZHANG

Memories of the Secret Garden

by SHUHE MA

Achild rambles along the village streets of Tsingtao, China. In no time at all, he is sandwiched in between towering residential complexes. He feels like a small rodent scuttling under the shadows of gray concrete titans. Under the silhouettes, he looks for a trail. Not these criss-cross trails of oily asphalt and gravel that effuse pungent smells under the heat of mid-day sun, but a small meandering trail, one of fine sand and pebbles that would massage his soles. As he searches for the trail, he knows that he has seen it a few times, hidden in seas of green meadows strewn with the purples of lavender and thistle that ripple with the breeze of spring. The air he’d puffed there was crisp. His ankles tickled and moistened with the remains of the morning dew. He climbed onto an old fig tree scarred with broken branches as he yearned for the trail that led to that Secret Garden, never to be found. Lost, he recalls being. Utterly, gloriously lost.

Enclosed and carefully watered since the beginning of his life, the Garden was his childhood sanctuary and a fountain of his youth. Whenever he communed with this arboretum, only the smell of supper prepared by Grandma could pull him away at dusk. The browned bamboo gate was a line between the divinely childlike and the materialistic, a gate that served to flood his eyes with the raw vigor of life. When he squeezed the cold damp soil with his toes, his eyes trembled and his body shivered as if beatles were marching down his spine. From the ruffled pink begonia to the wide flops of Chinese evergreens, and up the yellow bamboo clusters, he saw shafts of light that knifed across the garden and splashed onto the grasses like raptures.

Grandpa was not Grandpa, he was another thing to wonder at and ponder childishly. Shielded from the cacophony, the child learned to marvel at and care for the glory of ephemeral natural beauty. The seed of adventure and amore that would come to define him was born here, in the dirt.

His eyes gleamed at the canopy gauzed by foliage of a young apricot tree. Sometimes, Grandpa brought tools, chemicals, and Chinese medicines into the garden to fight the pests. He watched with quiet fascination, as did the creepers that held onto the concrete wall. In this place,

Years flew by and the child traveled to many places of great beauty. From the scoured dunes of the Gobi to the ragged wet coastline of the Olympics, he followed the path of a friend and became a wayfarer. Always wandering, always secretly looking for the trail to the Garden. He knows that the Garden is long gone now, gone even from maps, alive only in his mind. A thing. A concept. But now the traveler realizes that though the Garden may be vanished and its trail, its physical worldly tether, long since severed, it still lives in his heart and with the laughter of his friends, huddling around a camp stove next to a glacier. It still lives as the trees and the ferns, the creeks and the winds that accompany his life. He just has to find a trail that leads to it again, and become that child once more.

“Lost, he recalls being.”

Mother Tongue

by WENDY ZHANG

Through The Looking Glass of Miramare

Formerly a royal castle jinxed with intrigues and curses, Castello Miramare is a bus ride away from Trieste, Italy, where visitors have access to stunning panoramic views of the Adriatic Sea and an expansive garden-park.

by THY PHAM

Dear 母语,

A first language not English instructed your mother to cook a rubber ducky Melodically singing a communist song on a bus of red and blue

Slowly language faded, vocal cords knotted Walking up the stairs with your mother you told her you wish your voice sounded like hers She knew her voice was a shield

Like an umbilical cord, her voice tethered to yours Mothers mother, unable to tell the difference between you two now White smile and dark tones still peeking through long distance phone calls

With her Mandarin my mother is forgiven for what I am not

A capitalist accent she is not required to hide, for how could she?

Yellow paint draws expectation eyes track the yellow line and American accent

Is this the difference I searched for?

Shift in tone chiseled by expectation

Cheeks brushed red with guilt by a language I felt ashamed to use?

Loose tether, made with red silk string fragility.

Characters that once danced across a page unreadable

A knot set in wax

String cut and replaced with gold chain Jade locking a language away

The Secret World of the Savannah

The Secret World of the Savannah Wander into the captivating world of the Savannah and take a peek into the daily lives of the world’s most famous wild animal species, ranging from lions to zebras to hyenas to elephants. The magical world where animals are the masters, and we are merely visitors.

by ANDY SONG

Vignettes in Kathmandu

Vignettes in Kathmandu

This is a series of snippits capturing my experience in Nepal. The country is lush with color, stunning people, and stunning monkeys, who graciously accept their picture being taken.

by LIV D’ALLESSANDRO

We Were Monsters

by JONNY ROTHBERG

Snout of Trient Glacier

The decaying terminus of the Trient Glacier as seen from Fenetre d’Arpette, Switzerland. 100 years ago, the Trient Glacier would have filled the entirety of this image frame, fully blocking the Trient Valley from wall to wall. The bare, scoured rock visible in this picture is evidence of that, from a time when glaciers ruled the earth and ground mountains into molehills.

by JONNY ROTHBERG

We were flakes, just wee little flakes back then, Mere frost flecks and pure ice crystals. Bound together by pressure, it was fate back then, In the cirques we’d become god’s chisels.

We were firn, yes firn we became back then, New snow, new brothers grew old. Each winter, each blizzard, each cloud, each flake, We swelled into giants in the cold.

We were snowfields who turned into icefields back then, Up there did we glisten and grow. From those places of stone, of sky, we went, To the valleys we crashed and we flowed.

And then we were monsters, great monsters back then, Under blue glass the world fell silent. From wee little seeds we had blossomed and flourished. Now even the rock we made pliant.

Monsters, great monsters; kings even then, Through us was earth born anew. In blue and white armor, shining we tended, With our claws the whole planet we hewed.

Sculptors and architects we were back then, Through boulders and bedrock we snaked. Great ridges we carved into valleys and ranges, Our dead became your treasured lakes.

But now we are wounded, we’re dying and dead, Proud blues and whites bruise into browns. The snow does not nourish, it taunts us instead, Of when we wore on our heads crowns.

Now we’re firn, soon we’ll be flakes again, Our time on this planet draws near. And then we’ll be down, and you’ll look all around, at the bare rock where we met our end.

When you search for us you’ll come to realize something, something which wasn’t quite clear. All this time under the ice we were etching, “monsters, we monsters were here.”

Of This, I Am Sure

by NATALIA BADGER

If I ever get out of this city, I shall live a little life that is slow and soft. I am sure of it. I shall rest my feet in the meadows of the Swedish Lapland and host my book club amidst lush woodland beside a glacial creek the color of fresh milk. We’ll talk about Proust and revel in the beauty of our surroundings but mostly

just drink rosé. I shall plant a not-so-great berry garden which I will water every morning and in the spring I will pluck not-so-ripe blueberries right off their bushes. Although it will not be the best berry garden in the world, it will be my own, and that will be reason enough to cherish it.

One day I shall take the leap and apply to be a tour leader in the Northern forest reserves of Botswana. I am sure of this. I’ll acquire muscles that don’t exist in normal people after months of daily biking and long sojourns across the wide veld. My fellow trip leaders and I will come to find that we love dancing in a rain with no breeze, that we love the groggy silence shared during our early mornings. We’ll go our separate ways when our contracts expire and we may never see each other again, but we’ll be lifelong friends all the same, bound by innumerous hours spent shivering in windy mountain storms.

In a year’s time, I shall pack up my things and move to Chile with my cousin Grace. I am sure of it. I shall join a class of hers to learn about astronomy and to see her in her natural environment, as a master and a teacher. I’ll probably quit after I realize that astronomy is more than just stargazing and that she expects me to do homework like everyone else. But it will be worth it, because I will get to spend nights in the Atacama under the galaxy, surrounded by her brilliant professor friends and their world of stars.

When I leave this city, I will take that leap, I will go to the coast of Thailand. I shall spend a summer in the sun teaching an online art history class, making videos for my students discussing the Old Masters while waves crash and sizzle in the background. I’ll tell my students that they too must take the leap and come to Thailand, and they’ll think I’m crazy. But it will be okay, because I know I will have planted the seed in some of their heads.

But when I think about it, maybe a leap doesn’t require me to actually leap–not just yet. Maybe I can live my life slowly, softly, and unexpectedly here, in the now. This city is my present and I see now that there is still much

exploring to be done, many more leaps to be taken here. The future is silent and emits no sound–how can I know where she wants me to go just yet? How can I be so sure? Sometimes I can feel her winds pointing me one way or the other, and I know she is waiting for me. My heart yearns for her mysterious embrace, yearns to laugh at the absurdity of finding myself in a ferocious Moroccan sandstorm. I long for those worn cobble streets and ancient hidden footpaths which will one day be known to the soles of my shoes. These places I’ve never been to where I already belong– they remain, they wait for me as She does. And one day, I’ll make it to them, all of them. I am sure of it.

Engulfed in Bubbles

For winter break, my family went on a boat trip along the Galapagos Islands. Avid free divers, my little sister and I were thrilled by the chance to swim with turtles, rays, penguins, and sea lions.

by NATALIA BADGER

A Room With A View

During my time living and studying Italian in Rome my friends and I took a trip to Cinque Terre. In our Airbnb, we exchanged smiles reassured that we made the right destination choice. I took this photo because I couldn’t get over how beautiful my bedroom window was, but in reality it was just a photo I Whatsapp messaged my mom as proof of my arrival.

by NATALIA BADGER

Palazzo Barberini Staircase

Staircase at Palazzo Barberini, now the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica, in Rome, Italy. Thehelicoidal staircase was designed by Italian architect Franceso Borromini.

by MARTINA DELIGIO

A Ligurian Passeggiata

by STELLA CARIDAD SALOMONE SOTOLONGO

During the pandemic, the world lost its color. Liguria, my childhood home, appeared to me now as a distant image, a sepia-tinted painting reminiscent of Hopper’s Morning Sun. People I might have known transformed into masks, sets of unknowing eyes. The streets fell silent, deprived of their usual night-time glow. The white sunlight spilling through my curtains felt more sterile than warm. I saw no distinction between the ocean and the sky, the line of the horizon blurred into a grey-scale memory.

While I wanted to appreciate the vibrant beauty around me which I once knew, all I could do was wait. I sat through all the seasons. When summer hit and I was allowed to get myself out of my tiny apartment, I made it my life mission to reabsorb some of life’s pigment. Really, I took every chance I had to visit a new place until I ran out of ideas – or money. Genova, Pisa, Florence, Milan. I hit every possible museum, restaurant, tourist site, and shopping avenue. Forcing myself to live on an incredibly city-centered itinerary, however, did not restore the colors which my eyes had so painfully longed for. Something was still off; the beige tinge of the brick roads seemed uninspiring. I still lacked passion.

I realized that to reconnect with my radiant self I had to re-explore what I once thought was quotidian. After all, I was newly unfamiliar with my surroundings. My favorite place in all of Liguria had always been Santa Margherita, a coastal municipality known for its beautiful plazas and pebble beaches. One morning in August, my instinct begged me to visit Santa once again and sit at a café, maybe to people-watch while pretending to read poetry. I put on a little blue dress, white sneakers, a headscarf, and headed out to live my Sophia Loren fantasy. Cafés in Santa are at every corner: under the porticoes, near the hotels, by the coast, under the train station – they’re hard to miss. They all have something different to offer, with their personalized menus, tables, and parasols – but they’re always full. No one was willing to give up their seat, and understandably so; it was 30 degrees Celsius in the shade. I was left with no choice but to keep walking up the main street until I reached another city.

The main street in Santa Margherita follows the coast for more than 5km, connecting it to another famous town called Portofino. The scenic route, made to preserve the diverse wildlife around it, is a thin two-way road that cars struggle to pass through. Some tracts have been gifted with cement or wooden sidewalks, while others flaunt a tiny walking space demarcated by some chipping paint. If traveling by vehicle, the journey to get to Portofino is just about 15 minutes long, but the quick drive does not do the beauty of the views justice. In contrast, for those who

decide to brave the walk, it is estimated to take an hour and a half. I, on that fine, scorching-hot August morning, opted for a hike in a tiny dress. Seeing that I had never actually walked the entire distance, the spontaneity of my choice rushed my body with adrenaline, a feeling I had lacked for months. Call it determination or temporary insanity, but I was going to take my colors back one way or another.

For the first 30 minutes of my journey, I snarked at the gray asphalt radiating heat below my feet. Admittedly, I felt pessimistic, at least until some blue of the breakers crashing on the cliffside started to enter my vision. Their white foam would sizzle on the browning rocks, darkening them with each returning wave. The pebble beaches seemed overpopulated in a post-COVID world, but it eased my mind to see how simple life can be when you’re sitting under the shade of a palm tree. That was when the sun, albeit shyly, began showing me some of its golden specks. I had made the right decision.

The next 30 minutes of my unexpected hike brought along the coastal evergreen woods, and for a bit, the temperature didn’t seem so unbearable. The poorly-built road even encouraged a detour over the cool, humid soil. It began smelling like the loving marriage between dew and salt, heavenly for those who yearn for the sea. I avoided the pavement until I realized my sneakers had begun to turn beige, a sign of a battle lost against the dirt. A few stairs up, a few stairs down, one sharp right turn, and I was back on a sidewalk. This time, the evergreens, which would follow me for the rest of the walk, became more sparse, giving space to a hidden gem: a bay called Paraggi. Even though Paraggi is a short portion of this road, it hides one of the only sandy beaches in all of Liguria. The beauty of its limpid aquamarine waters is unmatched, and the private, almost secretive feeling of the location has pushed a few lucky entities to build scattered villas in the vicinity. In true Ligurian fashion, the villas are enormous, boasting arches and balconies painted in vibrant ochres, pinks, and reds. Even their green Persian shutters are the perfect lesson in color-blocking for the artful eye.

Admittedly, the last 30 minutes of my journey consisted of me peeking through the trees to stare at these architectural wonders, which stand so elegantly, absorbing the brine forever lingering in the air. It felt sinful to look away, almost as if the colorful homes in front of me would cease to exist if I turned the other way. The most courageous decision I made was to continue walking. The next 30 minutes passed me by; between adoring the purple bougainvilleas and the blueish lilacs, I had arrived at my destination: Portofino. There I found a seat under a striped umbrella, where I treated myself to several sweet iced teas.

To my surprise, the walk back to Santa Margherita was just as reviving, and as promised, every aspect of the experience remained untouched, retaining its tint. It might have been the sunlight grazing my forehead, the clean air, or the serenity of the scenes in front of me that restored my appreciation for color. That, I will never actually know. What I do know, however, is that I deserve to enjoy the world around me. I deserve to be able to tell the line of the horizon, I deserve to distinguish grass from budding flowers. Nothing can take that away from me again.

Yellow Stucco

by STELLA CARIDAD SALOMONE SOTOLONGO

Salt Flats in Jujuy

Taken in Jujuy, the northernmost province of Argentina. by LEAH LOUISE EL-OUAZZANE

A sun rises over a beach on the Isla de Espiritu Santo, or Island of the Holy Spirit. The island has no permanent residences, and tour groups have a variety of restrictions in order to preserve the island’s natural beauty.

by EVA HOLWICK

Quiet Coastal Place by

EVA HOLWICK

The road morphs into a secret path, leading us to a hidden coastal place. While Todos Santos is by no means an unknown spot, driving to town will feel worlds away from the famous resorts of Cabo San Lucas and San José del Cabo. The hills of Todos protect it from Cabo, making the two places feel completely different. By day, whale pods and surfers dot bejeweled waves. By night, turtles hatch from the sand and struggle seawards, something my family was able to witness together. The waves sweep away the hatchlings and I grow excited thinking about how many may return to that same beach in the future, and how we may do the same. In town, galleries showcase local artwork full of color and the Baja mythos, with pieces drawing on cave paintings and legends from the ancient groups that lived in the area. Coffee shops offer unique blends inspired by the town that are roasted locally, and all operate on their own spontaneous hours. My eyes wander over

the traditional brightly-colored hacienda Baja houses with their stucco walls, courtyards with lush fauna, their seamless transitions between indoor and outdoor spaces. At night, I listen, my ears enveloped by quiet, to the sound of waves two kilometers away crashing as if they are whispering in my ear. I walk along the beach in the mornings and watch as pelicans dive for fish, and wave at the fishermen that load their skiffs for the day ahead. The calm of the atmosphere permeates every activity, even the chaos of the surf, and the momentary breaks in the waves give moments of peace. The waves pull me under as I surf–I feel like the baby sea turtles that we helped to release, being swept around by the sea. As I slip off the board yet again, I am only reminded of the cyclical nature life takes, and a sense that everything is working out the way it needs to. That board and Todos Santos are a reset, transporting one from the busyness of life to the oasis of a hidden coastal place.

Sunrise Over the Isla

Young Maiden’s Flight

An image taken on the maiden flight of the photographer’s drone taken at Playa Zicatela, Oaxaca. The 3km beach, known for it’s dangerous undercurrent and impressive swells; is a popular surf spot with big waves. Barrels have been reported to reach 40ft in height when conditions permit. But on this day, the focus was more on the patterns in the sand than what was out on the water.

by WENDY ZHANG

Two Wheels & Open Road

by LORELEI MEIDENBAUER

A Journey Along the Trans-America Trail

Cholla House

A lone cholla cactus sits in front of Noah Purifoy’s model of a white house on stilts.

by FELIX ROMIER

Place your bets on the oldest bicycle touring route America has to offer. Two wheels, steel frame, and a dream against all Mother Nature has to offer. Success will take you from one ocean to another, but of course it will be far from easy. Your biggest foes: terrain, temperature and time.

Years of dreaming finally come to fruition, and suddenly the road is beneath your tires. The ocean licks at your feet as you depart. Hundreds of miles become a series of moments, one pedal at a time. It’s a state of presence you crave, so much meaning packed behind each movement.

Virginia heat is suffocating, frying your nerves. There’s a weight of centuries that at times feels uncomfortable, as if still reckoning with itself. The rolling hills slowly grow in size and sharpness, but there’s little time to dwell as each day demands so much.

Appalachia is your first real test. The saturated air melts your skin and your resolve. The weight of your ambition hits you hard, each pedal costing more and more effort. East coast climbs are sharp and steep, and your legs scream in rebellion against the relentless hills. Plans are more complicated than ever. The crest Blue Ridge mountains help you take a deep breath, one that resets your body and soul. The land and the sky seem to dance, and you are simply

following the horizon. Kentucky and Illinois pass quickly. You use the rolling hills to your advantage, momentum carrying you from crest to crest until you find yourself in the Garden of the Gods. The sun seems to celebrate with you, painting the world with brilliant color as it sets and rises, celebrating the solstice. Your soul shifts on this day.

The Ozarks are next, a sneak attack of climbs. The adrenaline of new beginnings has long worn off and sheer exhaustion is setting in. Who knew there were mountains in Missouri? You keep pushing nevertheless. Let the inclines break you. Let them rip a bit of soul from your heart and make you question everything. They afford you the luxury of healing, too.

Sunbath

The bikes wait beside the toolshed in the afternoon light, eager for their trip through the rolling Vermont hills. by FELIX ROMIER

Seaside

by WILLIAM MOON

There is no time now for a reprieve. Kansas is home to 30 mile- per- hour headwinds that push back against your progress, shoving against you every which way. The flatness of the land supports few trees as a solace from the brutal sun. It takes double the effort to go half as far, yet somehow you will not help but smile. You find your purpose here, and it defines you.

Colorado is the state of change. You’ve spent so long in rural America that even small cities feel overwhelming, as if you forgot how many people could congregate in a place at one time. It’s especially prominent in this Garden of the Gods, the more famous one. The one where groups of people shepherd themselves from place to place between fence rails.

Halfway through the state you turn northward, suddenly finding yourself at the point of no return; the Continental Divide. Your path weaves up the spine of the country, yanking you through almost unfathomable altitudes. This is the challenge you anticipated, the one you saw coming from thousands of miles away. The Rockies are much grander, their vastness overwhelming; majestic and too huge to truly comprehend. Uphills stretch for twenty miles at a time, rewarding you with unbelievable downhills. The sky and the land feel further apart than ever as you pedal in the space between them. Everything is falling into place now, as if the mountains are supporting your presence on the journey. There’s room for you to exist here, to breathe here. Soak in this feeling,

treasure it.

Wyoming is dry. Water is heavy. National Parks are packed. These are facts you learn in the deep true West. The dichotomy of remote town to tourist destination is jarring. It feels almost disrespectful to all the other beautiful places without the same designation. You determine it’s one of those things that’s worth a visit, but is not to your taste. Yet in the middle of nowhere are hot springs, ones that are tranquil and quiet. It’s these you’ll want to return to, reading stories aloud with strangers. Voices ringing through the twilight. Human connection in the purest form.

Montana welcomes you back with open arms, these hills storing hugs of lifelong friends. It’s as if the mountains hold every memory, whispering them back to you as you ride. The heart of the Trans America trail is here, almost 50 years of history. The stories of cyclists from long ago fascinate you, reminding you that this call of adventure withstands the test of time. All those wheels that came before yours are present in your conscience as you move forward.

Then the states blur together. Oregon, then Washington, then back again, skirting between borders. You follow bridges over rivers, hopping from town to town, forest to forest. At first it all feels peaceful, akin to a homecoming. The feeling of a cold yellow Gatorade 45 miles into a century ride in the middle of nowhere. The Pacific Northwest is full of secrets you’ve merely glimpsed, the weather as ever- changing as your emotions.

The landscape slowly changes, the mountains shrinking as you near the coast. Waterfall after waterfall propels you towards your goal.

The Pacific Ocean celebrates with you. The waves remember you, welcoming you back. The wind is colder than expected, as if teasing. As the hours stretch on and the chill sets in, you can’t imagine an ending more fitting than this, though it chips away a piece of your heart. An ending that’s a little too final.

You’re left with a question you don’t yet know how to answer:

Mojave Installation

Noah Purifoy’s art installation looks out onto the mountains and shrubs of the Mojave Desert.

by FELIX ROMIER

Spikes

Joshua Trees snake around and reach up towards the desert sky, seemingly poking through it.

by FELIX ROMIER

“what’s next?”

A Lonely Church

Iceland is known for its red-roofed churches, many of which are placed in front of spectacular backdrops. I happened to stumble upon this one on the Western side of Iceland, which is known for its dramatic fjords, valleys, and mountains.

by MICHAEL JI

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Rotonda Foschini by THY PHAM

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