Baedeker Fall 2016 by Baedeker Travel Magazine

BAEDEKER T R AV E L M A G A Z I N E

FA L L 2 0 1 6

TABLE OF CONTENTS LATIN AMERICA Paradise in the Desert.............. 3-4 by Mathilde van Tulder At the End of the World............... 5 by Julia Bucci ASIA 5 Underrated Places to Go in Thailand........................................ 6 by Sarah Peters India........................................... 7-8 by Olivia Peters Snapshot: Hong Kong............. 9-10 by Alicia Duato

Hong Kong: The City that Never Slows Down........................... 11-12 by Grace Mui After Dark................................... 12 by Alicia Duato Avatar, Mountain Banshees, and Me.......................................... 13 by Alison Rao

Venice......................................... 25 by Willa Tellekson-Flash Trick or Treating at Dracula’s Castle.......................................... 26 by Lily McMahon

MIDDLE EAST Istanbul: A Tale of Two Worlds 14 by Shervin Abdolhamidi

OCEANIA Over the Bridge.......................... 29 by Andrina Voegele

EUROPE Quick Guide to Florentine Eats... 15 by Lucy Lyons Naked, Not Afraid....................... 16 by Ismail Ibrahim Snapshot: South Tyrol, Italy 17-18 by Jack Davidson Slipped into Shadow.......... 19-20 by Kari Sonde My Zorita............................... 21-22 by Jenny Levine Snapshot: Elba, Italy.............. 23-24 by Kira Boden-Gologorsky

NORTH AMERICA Battle of the Philly Cheesesteaks 30 by Izzie Ramirez Mastering the Mountain...... 31-32 by Marie Bailey

Snapshot: Narlai, India.......... 27-28 by Olivia Peters

AFRICA Tamale Taxi................................ 33 by Opheli Lawler DEPARTURE ............................... 34 by Editorial Staff

17 23 15

24 14 16 25

13 7 6

9 12 11

3 27

(cover) Elephant Mountain at sunset in Narlai, a small village in northwest India. (right) Hiking to a temple outside of the city of Udaipur, India. photos by Olivia Peters *In the previous Spring 2016 issue of Baedeker, we misspelled the country "Colombia" as "Columbia"—we apologize for this error.

Editor’s Letter

hile in the works for this issue of Baedeker, our lives were changed by the results of the 2016 presidential election. For some, a Trump presidency means very little. For many others, including myself, this means four years of fear. A Trump presidency could have a huge impact on how we travel. It may mean increased security at airports and more random screenings for people who look like me—openly brown. It may mean that roadtrippers will have to take more caution when venturing into potentially tumultuous territory. It absolutely means that we not only need to protect ourselves when we travel, but also to protect the tourists who come to visit. Have patience with those who clog our traffic and maybe take too many selfies. We often mock people who come to visit, but with increased xenophobic violence across the country, this could severely impact the likelihood of people traveling to the United States to experience the vast diversity of culture across our country—whatever that may entail. It also might make traveling to other

countries more appealing. Frankly, it’s safer for me to go to Ireland rather than South Carolina at the moment. But as more and more people express the desire to leave, it’s even more important to be mindful about how we travel. Don’t fetishize other cultures. Don’t snap pictures of strangers without their permission. Don’t disrespect another country’s history. Refrain from taking pictures of impoverished villagers thinking that you understand, even for a second, what their lives are like. Don’t climb statues that have existed for hundreds of years (without a clear affirmation that it’s okay). Ask questions. Support locals—buy their goods instead of

getting a random keychain. Experience life elsewhere, but understand that it’s not about you. Respect their traditions, even if you don’t 100% agree with them. Critique, but do not offend. Listen and learn. Eat. Drink. Play. As you travel, be aware of how lucky you are. You are lucky and blessed to have the mobility and access to so many places. You are fortunate to have means of documenting where you go. Share what you learn—preferably with us! kari sonde

KARI SONDE | editor in chief

ETHAN SAPIENZA | secretary

SAM SOON | photo editor

ANNA FERKINGSTAD | managing editor

KAT SUN | treasurer

ANA LOPES | web editor

WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH | managing editor

JACK DAVIDSON | art director

ZOYA TO | lead illustrator

HARTANTO YUWO | events & distribution

LIZZY TEPLUKHIN | social media

ANNA LEE BUI | illustrator

north america editors JENNA ELLIS KATHERINE CHEN

europe editors LILY MCMAHON FRANCES YACKEL

africa editors HEATHER SCHINDLER ROSHANI MOORJANI

latin america editor OPHELI LAWLER

asia editors SARAH PETERS SERA BARBIERI

middle east & oceania editor JENNY LEVINE

web team MATHILDE VAN TULDER

nyubaedeker@gmail.com | nyubaedeker.wordpress.com

layout team LAURA BURKE STEPHANIE PAN JULIA ZITA SARA LAUFER KATE SUN

by MATHILDE VAN TULDER

oken up by the squeak of the bus breaks, I lift my facemask to check my phone and realize it is 5:42 AM and we have arrived to a deserted cobblestone road in the town of Uyuni. I scurry to gather my belongings and jump out into the bitter spring air. Colorful, onestory buildings line the streets; their crusty and peeling facades seem to have been swept away and eroded by wind, like the entire town itself.

Reunited with my friends, we hobble a few dusty blocks into the only open cafe at that time, and order large cafes con leche to down our altitude medications. After five hours of sleepily hanging around the cafe, our guide Elias came to fetch half of us for our 10:30 departure. Not too sure what we had signed up for, we helped haul dozens of water bottles, gas tanks, and crates of food onto the 4x4 Toyotaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s roof. The white, beatup but sturdy looking car was

one of about 20 lined up on the dust covered road as dozens of backpack-carrying, long-haired, eager travelers scurried around the street. Finally, we jumped in and drove away, leaving behind a cloud of dust and the echos of crackling reggaeton music. Bolivia is one of the smallest, most vastly underrated countries in South America. In the three days of our 4x4 tour, we did not encounter anything seemingly close to civilizationâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;but it felt as if we traveled through a million landscapes.

Uyuni, Bolivia Paradise in the Desert

DAY ONE, we found ourselves in the strangest environment: the Uyuni Salt Flats. We were surrounded by vast, crisp whiteness as we drove for dozens of miles. No road, no sense of direction, just an ocean of white salt surrounded by a silhouette of purple mountains. At Isla Incahuasi, I had never felt so displaced in my life: thousands of cacti invade the island like hill in the middle of the deserted salt flats. Llamas roam around casually. How could they possibly have arrived to this desolate location? Filler for caption

DAY TWO, we awoke in our salt hotel—a giant igloo constructed of salt blocks instead of ice. A quick breakfast of instant coffee and dry bread, and we were back on the dirt road. We left the salt desert behind, trading it in for one of dirt and dust with unmarked paths winding in all directions and small arid shrubs as the only visible vegetation. Luckily our guide had grown up in the “town” where we had stayed—an accumulation of 5 houses at the foot of a mountain— and knew the lands like the back of his hand. Suddenly, we approached a lagoon rumbling with wildlife. Vicunas, birds, and thousands of flamingoes were enjoying the area, an oasis in the middle of a desolate, dry landscape. The colors were astounding: bright pink birds in soft turquoise water against the melody of beiges and browns making up the overlooking mountains.

DAY THREE was comprised of a dreadfully and frigid 4 AM wake up. Scurrying into the car, the dawn scenery soon made it all worthwhile. The flaming orange sunrise infiltrated our car as we sped through rocky desert grounds. Pulling up to what resembled the surface of Mars, we watched the saturated sunrise reflect off of erupting geysers. Once the colors faded to normal, we headed off to natural hot springs where we bathed in the 7 AM breeze (especially nice as we hadn’t showered in the past 72 hours). The rest of the day consisted of meandering through volcanic lava rock formations and unsuccessfully chasing llamas with our cameras. Completely exhausted and significantly less clean, we returned to Uyuni and headed headed right back to the cafe where we had cluelessly began three days earlier. As we watied for our overnight bus, I clicked through my camera. The strangeness of the never ending salt flats, the eternal dryness of the desert, the panorama of mountains, a rainbow of lagoons, an island of cacti, active volcanoes, lava rock formations, wild llama herds, thousands of flamingos, chinchillas, and even ostriches— far different than anything I could have imagined

Overlooking a valley in Ushuaia. Located on the Tiera del Fuego archipelago, Ushuaia is in the southern most region of South America.

by JULIA BUCCI

iking was never really my thing. As a self-proclaimed city girl who grew up in the suburbs of Boston, I always appreciated the beauty of the mountains, but never got the chance to truly take advantage them. In the springtime in Argentina, my friends and I spent four unbelievable days in Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world. As none of us had a ton of experience hiking, we relied on kind hostel workers and random Argentines we met on the trails to guide us on making it through a hike. On one of the final mornings in Ushuaia, we awoke with no idea what to do. We had seen the penguins, eaten the asado, hiked the glacier, and explored the town. Short of hopping on a cruise to

Antarctica, we thought we had checked off the list for Ushuaia. The owners of our hostel, a recently married couple, advised us to see the Laguna Esmeralda, pointing to a poster with a photo of a green lake that hung behind them on the wall. What really sold us was the promise of maybe seeing a beaver. We jumped onto the next bus that could bring us to the start of the hike, which to our surprise, was a small restaurant and a training school for wolves to become sled dogs. After overcoming our shock about how many wolves were within arms length, we began the hike. The hike brought us through muddy fields where our feet sank in so deep that our shoes became lined with thick, gooey earth. The trail wound into a wooded area that we

Ushuaia, Argentina

could only compare to Narnia. All of a sudden, the trees opened up to reveal a beautiful brook and huge, colorful mountains with a gradient of trees trickling down the sides. We had to walk a bit farther before we found the laguna, crossing over the stream at points, our boots sinking even further into the mud, making a satisfying smoosh sounds with every step. Finally, after ascending up the face of a large rock, the laguna came into view. As promised in the name, the water was a gorgeous emerald color, and was surrounded by snow-capped mountains. The water shimmered under the sun. It seemed so untouched that it felt as if we were the first to ever see it. The sight was so overwhelming that for a few speechless moments, all I could do was stare.

AT THE END OF THE WORLD

5 Underrated Places to go in Thailand

by SARAH PETERS

The Bangkok Green Lung Just across the Chao Phraya River, a five-minute sky train ride from Bangkok’s city center, is the Bangkok Green Lung, a government-protected jungle sanctuary. Though it gets its name from its shape, it’s also a breath of fresh air compared to the bustling streets of Bangkok. The Green Lung is covered with vines, coconut and banana trees, papaya groves, and other flora local to Thailand. It is also home to a whole host of fauna, including monkeys, snakes, and birds. Although biking is one of the more popular activities on the Green Lung, there is also an Eco Hotel, complete with a coffee bar. On the more cultural side, there are a few small temples and a traditional floating market, where villagers sell locally grown and handmade items.

Ghost Tower Sathorn Unique Tower, or Ghost Tower, as it's commonly known as now, was built to be a luxury apartment complex by the Chao Phraya River. But during the 1997 financial crisis in Asia, construction stopped. The building slowly became home to vagrants and stray dogs. But in recent years, the 49-story building has become an underground tourist destination. The empty hallways filled with debris and eclectic graffiti are said to be haunted. For a thrill, a workout, and one of the best views of the Bangkok skyline, climb the 49 flights of stairs to the top of Ghost Tower.

Movie Theathers Visualize a sea of plush, red sofa chairs that can recline as far as you want. It is common to find people fast asleep in these chairs during a movie. Tickets for two are only 430 Thai baht, just over 12 dollars. Plus, the concession counter offers an abundance of Asian snacks and goodies. If that isn’t enticing enough, you can create your own popcorn flavor—sweet, salty, caramely, cheesy, or a mixture of your choosing.

The Marble Temple The Dusit district of Bangkok is home to the Marble Temple, which appears on the back of five-baht coins. While temples in Bangkok tend to shine gold, the Marble Temple is made almost entirely of white Italian marble. Built in 1899, the Marble Temple has strong ties to the royal family: King Rama V, who directed the construction, has his ashes buried in the ordination hall and the late king of Thailand, King Bhumibol, was ordained as a monk there. Inside the temple’s galleries, there are 52 images of the Buddha in various traditional styles from different centuries. To enter the temple you must wear clothing that covers your shoulders and knees, or you will be given a sarong to cover yourself upon entering, as per Thai custom.

7-11

7-11s are all over the world, but in Bangkok, you can buy just about anything there. Booze, books, DVDs, cell phones, food, medicine, and even airplane tickets are all there if you need them. Oftentimes, 7-11s are right across the street from one another, or on the same street a few doors down. And while Bangkok is known for its amazing restaurants and mouth-watering street food, 7-11 has some surprisingly great nosh. If you don’t have the time to sit at a restaurant or simply have a late night craving for Thai food, 7-11 to-go meals are perfect. They heat it up for you on the spot, and it tastes nearly as good as a home cooked Thai meal.

tirring and stimulating the sensesâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;this encapsulates my trip to India. The culture and history was so rich and diverse and the people genuine, welcoming, and eager to share their stories if only by touch or with a smile. I began my journey in Mumbai, and from there went to Udaipur, Narlai, Jodhpur, Jaipur, Agra, and finally New Delhi. I was taught a common saying that enumerates three things to be able to drive in India: good breaks, a good horn, and most importantly, good luck. As I traveled by car throughout the country, this statement proved to be more than true. Monsoon season brought flooded roads, occupied with mass herds of cows blocking off the freeways. It was hectic and unlike anything I had ever experienced before. There was intense beauty and colour around every corner, whether it was temples laden and adorned with fruits and flowers, food stalls heaped with hundreds of sumptuous spices, or the stunning women in their vibrant saris. I was in awe of the visual gift of this country and was equally impressed with feelings and emotions that emerged on this trip. How wonderful it was to experience real spirit in a place where peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s strong sense of faith seeps into every aspect of daily life. One of the most intriguing aspects to this photo series is the people themselves. In many of the villages or temples we stopped in along the way, the residents had never seen a photograph of themselves before. Each time I took a portrait, I loved being able to share the images with the subject afterwards and catch a glimpse of their reaction. *The author asked everyone featured in this photo series for permission before taking their picture.

by OLIVIA PETERS

An older woman in temple in the northwestern village of Narlai.

An onlooking vendor in the village of Tarpal.

A mother and son in the village of Narlai.

Young schoolgirls in blue uniforms.

A child at an open market in the village of Narlai.

TAI O, HONG KONG Tai O, also known as ‘The Venice of the East’ is a small fishing town on the western side of Lantau Island. Walking through the streets, there are buckets of live fish, crabs, and other sea creatures fresh for customers to buy. A common delicacy, and the only dish without fish served , is tofu fa, a custard like dish made out of soybeans and soaked in sugar syrup.

by ALICIA DUATO

n hole-in-the-wall restaurants, customers are waved in and out, encouraged to order as fast as possible. On the streets, people weave through the masses and stream into small alleys on their way to work. In the underground, people speed to catch the next metro train home. Everything happens at a breakneck pace. Normal walking speed is considered slow, and fast isn't fast enough.

The sun sets over Tai Mo Shan and the Hong Kong skyline. (photo by Grace Mui)

The frenzy is not always a bad thing—when you’re hungry and exhausted from a long day of work or exploration, there is nothing is better than having a steaming hot bowl of noodles or rice served within minutes of placing your order. But it can be all too easy to get caught up in this mindset. Within a few days in the city, I found myself complaining about the “long” 15 minute trip from the main island to Tsim Sha Tsu. Changing subway lines seemed exhausting. The few people walking at a normal pace earned glares from me as I squeezed past them impatiently, even if I was in no rush. Perhaps the best explanation for this phenomenon is simply how small Hong Kong is. Going from one end of the city to the other takes no more than an hour, and the pavement next to main roads barely fits two people. The city center is lined with skyscrapers built up side by side because there is no place to spread out down below. The first few floors of apartment buildings are always used as space for little restaurants and shops, and every twisting alleyway is filled with even smaller vendors. All of this intended to provide for the 7 million people in a city that can barely fit them. It is no wonder that speed is so ingrained into the culture here—there is simply no room to stop.

The farther you get from the city center, however, the more space there is to breathe. Nestled in the mountains, situated on the opposite side of Hong Kong Island, or located far inland on the Kowloon Peninsula, you’ll find spaces that are more relaxed. You’ll find yourself feeling less crammed, rushed, or crushed by the masses. The tiny size of the city with the speed built into its culture has its charms. Public transportation is efficient and convenient. Finding tasty food is never a problem, as there are always dozens of restaurants with fast-moving queues. Public parks, like Tamar Park in Admiralty, can be reached easily, offering a safe haven from the hustle and bustle of the city. But when experiencing Hong Kong, take some time to get away from the city. The best beaches and hikes are found in the furthest regions from the city center, and the northern reaches of Kowloon boast interesting spots and architecture as well—all adding no more than 15 minutes to your travel time to any other tourist traps. If you make the effort to slow down in the city that never does, you’ll find it well worth your time—I know I did.

by ALICIA DUATO (left) A pedestrian in Causeway Bay, Hong Kong. (above) View of Hong Kong at night from a flat, near the Wan Chai neighbourhood.

A middle school girl, sitting in the first row of the IMAX theater, could be thinking many things, staring up at the infamous blue Avatar, Jake Sully, and his Na’vi counterpart, Neytiri, as they soared around tall, seemingly floating mountains on dragon-like creatures that the film called mountain banshees. I was that middle school girl—but I can tell you that what I was thinking was nothing at all. I didn’t know what to think. I was in complete awe: dropped jaw and wide eyes as dramatic music started to play when Jake and Neytiri hopped onto the “mountain banshees.” It felt like I was going to experience the most exciting thing of my eleven-yearold life. Seven years later, I start to lose feeling in my legs after the twelfth mile of walking. Stop and go traffic at ZhangJiaJie is reminiscent of the rush hour into Manhattan, but instead of cars it’s people, trying to get the best look at the very same mountains that Neytiri flew around. People push by me, yelling out in Korean, Chinese, Japanese, and occasionally English. Wooden

railings along the path keep visitors from falling into the clouds below, the way Jake might have if he fell off his mountain banshee. My trip to ZhangJiaJie was certainly different than I expected. Unlike the Avatars, I had to walk up and down the mountains, dodge people around me, and constantly look for bathrooms without endless lines. I passed a woman leaning over a bench, vomiting as her family members desperately fanned her with the cheap fans vendors were selling at every viewing balcony. I was hit with 95-degree heat pounding down on my back as I walked thirteen miles up and down wooden stairs and narrow trails for two days. My eleven-year-old self, sunken into a plush chair in an air conditioned movie theater, laughed at me as I wore out my Nikes, sweat seeping through my shirt. Our tour guide shouted into her megaphone in Chinese every couple of minutes to make sure not to lose the group, while other tour guides did the same in other languages, creating a cacophony that, combined with the heat, made the hike almost

unbearable. However, each viewpoint gave me the same feeling of approaching the climax of Avatar. I was not in the movie theater watching Jake and Neytiri fly around on mountain banshees over unknown mountains—I was there. The movie was suddenly a reality. It was tangible dream. The tall mountains poked out of the clouds and dared to extend even more. Leaning over the wooden railing that separated me from the invisible ground below brought a gush of wind that allowed me to temporarily forget about my growing sunburn. The few moments that I was able to push through people to get on the edge of the viewing balcony made the suffocating aisles and unforgivable heat fade away. Though I cannot deny the overwhelming happiness that I felt as we reached the bus stop that would take us to the bottom of the mountain, when we finally reached the bottom and drove away, my relief was mixed with unexpected sadness as I left the world of Avatar behind.

The well–known Wulingyuan Scenic Area is located in Zhanglialie, a city in the northwest of China's Hunan province.

by ALISON RAO

AVATAR, MOUNTAIN BANSHEES, AND ME

by SHERVIN ABDOLHAMIDI

ISTANBUL

A TALE OF TWO WORLDS

ISTANBUL IS

regarded by many as the juxtaposition of the East and West, a coalescence of these contradictory cultures. A brief look at Istanbul’s history as the epicenter of three major empires is enough to understand how one city could spawn so much heritage.

1 A CRASH COURSE IN RELIGION AND TRADE

y first visit is to the Hagia Sophia, one of the most compelling landmarks of Istanbul. The building served as a church from 537 to 1453 CE before being converted into a mosque by the Ottoman Empire from 1453 to 1931 CE. After the Hagia Sophia was secularized, the Christian art that the Ottomans had painted over was painstakingly removed. As I walk into the Great Hall, I’m in awe of the magnitude of the room. The sprawling dome,150 feet high, bathes in reflecting sunlight, eliciting sighs from those who enter. The main altar immediately attracts my eye: a towering mosaic of the Virgin Mary and Jesus is flanked by massive, ornamented calligraphies of Allah and Mohammad. In spite of the historical friction between the two religions, the confluence of Islamic and Christian art is mesmerizing. My next stop is the Grand Bazaar: an indoor city unto itself, teeming with people immersed in the pursuit of the best deal. This indoor congregation of commerce has been one of the epicenters of trade for centuries. In one shop a buyer haggles with a merchant, hoping to obtain a hefty price cut. An adjacent shopkeeper anxiously approaches a tourist, alluring him with multilingual versions of "welcome" and "hello." In another corner, a sweetsshop owner’s son beguiles a group of young foreign girls with free samples and charm. The girls smile while tasting small pieces of assorted Turkish Delight, tentatively entering the store. All through the alleys of this remarkable indoor city, young boys walk with large trays, precipitously stacked with Turkish tea cups, the purported fuel of this inimitable microcosm of trade.

KNOW WHERE TO GET THE VIEWS

he next day, I visit the Topkapi Palace. The Topkapi Palace is a testament to the blend of Islamic and Baroque architecture with towers reminiscent of a medieval castle and intricate mosaics in the rooms, which are common in Islamic art. The best part is the balcony in the fourth courtyard. This marble stone pathway provides a dazzling panoramic vista of the Bosphorus Strait and the Golden Horn—probably explaining why the Ottomans chose the southern hill for their palace. It’s an unparalleled vantage point from which the Ottoman sultans would gaze at the heart of their glorious empire. Later, I walk across the scenic Galata Bridge to the Galata Tower, a dominating figure in the Istanbul skyline. Once used as a lighthouse by the Ottomans, the tower is now a restaurant and observation tower with an unobstructed panoramic view of the whole city.

THE JANUS-FACED CITY

s the sun sets on my last day, I stand on the Galata Bridge, admiring the skyline of shimmering mosques, whose slender minarets are silhouetted by the dazzling sunset. The hauntingly beautiful Adhan call to prayer resonates through the air, its piercing reverberation sending the faithful to the mosques for prayers. Meanwhile, the cafés and clubs prepare for the evening flow of night dwellers, impervious to the Adhan’s connotations. As for me, I stand rooted to the bridge, astonished by the clashes, and lack thereof, in this confounding city.

A Quick Guide To Florentine Eats It’s hard to have a bad meal in Florence, but it’s also easy to have an unforgettable one, so you might as well. Here are a few favorites of mine:

GELATO A

Gelateria La Carraia

Gelateria dei Neri

Gelateria della Passera

My Sugar

ou may have already heard of this place before arriving to Florence—it actually is the best sandwich in the world, with the crispiest warm bread and most amazing cured meats. They even have an amazing vegetarian sandwich too. Don’t forget to get a two euro glass of wine with your meal! Try: Porchetta (pork), crema di carciofi (artichoke cream) spread, fresh tomatoes.

Vini e Vecchi Sappori

abulous traditional Tuscan vibe and fare. They make a duck ragu that is world famous, and for good reason. Call ahead for reservations, as it is a relatively small place.

O A D

All Antico Vinnaio

Café Rivoire

verlooking the historic Piazza della Signoria is the best place for a traditional cappuccino and croissant. Opened by the former chocolatier of the king of Savoy in 1872 and virtually unchanged since, the interior is timeless and beautiful. There is a wide selection of pastries and cakes, and the hot chocolate is to die for. If you miss America, they also have scrambled eggs. Plan to sit and enjoy the ambience.

by LUCY LYONS

Gustaosteria

elatively undiscovered, but probably my favorite restaurant in Florence. If you are looking for something traditionally Tuscan, this is your spot, and if you are a pasta aficionado, this is the best gnocchi you will find anywhere. I got on a first name basis with the staff because I was there so often. Everything on the menu is good, but the hands down winner is the gnocchi. They have three flavors: pesto, truffle, and gorgonzola/rucola. They will usually only display one sauce, but if you ask they can likely make any of the three for you.

Trattoria Da Mario

y favorite place for classic Tuscan lunch. Very cheap and informal; it’s cafeteria style, so you are usually seated at a table with people you don’t know. If you want a seat, especially during peak season, make sure to get there at noon or slightly before, with no more than two other people. Their menu changes daily, but don’t be sad when something you like is rotated out. Try: soup of the day, tuscan beans.

Naked, Not Afraid

here is something unsettling about the bodies of muscular old men, especially when they’re naked. Perhaps it is the way their wrinkly skin hangs off of tight, hard muscle. It might be the torso that seems tacked on to atrophying legs, like a G.I. Joe and Barbie hybrid. It is a walking contradiction, virility wrapped in death becoming. A freaky juxtaposition. Almost every day for a month, I shared a calm pebble beach with one such man. He was a Frenchman who moved to Crete to get out of the religious fervor of his small town. I, an Egyptian working on an herb farm, trying to clear my head. During the rural watercolor days, where hours fade into one another in textures rather than hard lines, I fell into the flow of time. Just pulling weeds and not torturing myself with the implications of ending one life so another could thrive. Tedium is underrated. The farm was on the face of one of the many dirt mountains in Crete. Oregano, rosemary, thyme, and lavender grew in brambles that the farm owner was unsuccessfully trying to straighten into rows. The farm overlooked a calm inlet of the Mediterranean, and across the water, several kilometers away, was the nearest city which I’d occasionally hitchhike to on the weekends. The sun was unrelenting, which is what gave

the herbs such strength. They weren’t green sacs of water, but concentrated, aromatic herbs— potent. The heat made it mandatory to visit the beach, and the Frenchman, at the end of every workday. “I ‘ated church,” he told me. I was skipping stones, respectfully engaging in conversation while looking away from his naked body. Maybe I’m squeamish. Maybe I didn’t want to be reminded of my own body’s fate. “The sea, the waves, the sun, these are my Gods,” he told me. I picked a black stone with some weight to it, approached the shore and waited for the right moment. I leaned out sideways and whipped my arm through the stone. I watched as the spinning stone kissed the water one, two, three, four times before unceremoniously entering the Mediterranean Sea. I think I expected the Frenchman to bestow some wisdom on me, but he never did. Probably a result of the language barrier. Who is to say his god of sea and mine of mosque are not one and the same?

by ISMAIL IBRAHIM

SOUTH TYROL, ITALY The drive from Meran, a town nestled down in the valley, up to San Leonardo in Passiria welcomed a change in scenery and weather. Trees became scarce and snow started to fall. These twisting roads offered amazing views and incredible driving conditions.

by JACK DAVIDSON

by KARI SONDE

n Bratislava, Slovakia, artist Tomaš Rafa speeds after a crowd of neo-Nazis as they march their way through a light drizzle on a grey day to put flowers on the grave of a long dead fascist leader and Nazi sympathizer, Jozef Tiso. Video camera hoisted up on his shoulder, Rafa records their parade through the town, passing by a large group of people protesting the neo-Nazi demonstration. I am a part of that group. I am actually there to observe Rafa. I read about him while studying in the Czech Republic and he seemed like the perfect person to profile for an upcoming journalism assignment: his recent installation piece, a set of flags combining Czech and Romani symbols, had been confiscated by local police under the claim of “defamation.” It wasn’t the swastikas scribbled on the flags by passersby that constituted the fine he had to pay; it was because he dared to mix Czech symbols with Romani ones. In a country where people openly gawked at me for being brown, where a woman relocated on the metro when I sat down next to her, where I was forced to stare at the swastika tattoo on the webbing between a man’s forefinger and thumb on a crowded bus, it was not surprising.

I called him to ask him if I could interview him. “Can you come to Slovakia?” he asked. I said okay, overlooking the idea that I could have written my profile on someone much easier to get to. It slipped my mind that I had never traveled anywhere outside of the United States completely alone—without someone I knew traveling with me, without anyone ready to receive me. I bought a bus ticket to Bratislava, found a room at a hostel near the city center, and pre-mapped my way from the bus station because I wouldn’t have service once I got there. I’d chosen, perhaps unwisely, to limit my phone usage in Europe by not purchasing an international phone plan, relying on Wi-Fi and a "brick phone" for absolute emergencies in the Czech Republic.

I called Rafa once I tapped into the hostel’s Wi-Fi; he was surprised that I’d gotten there so soon, and we set up a

meeting time the next day. In the meantime, I dipped down to the hostel bar for a drink, and found myself bonding with some young Slovakian music video producers over our shared appreciation of Drake and Die Antwoord. CROWDS I woke up the next day with the gentlest of hangovers and met Rafa in a pretty pale pink, green, and white café with cursive font on the menu and white seats alongside ivory cushioned armchairs. When he walked in, I was surprised; he looked like he’d just been camping, in dark green pants, a dark green shirt, and beat up sneakers with a large black backpack. Apparently he really liked the sandwiches at that cafe. We sat down and talked about his work, ranging from murals to the controversial flags, but mostly focused on video work documenting x e n o p h o b i a throughout Central and Eastern Europe. After interviewing him, he invited me to a screening of his films at a small gallery. I found my way there and understood absolutely nothing—everything was in Slovak, and I only knew the bare minimum of Czech words, all of which had to do with beer. He introduced me to his girlfriend and their friend

afterwards, and they invited me to a candlelight vigil for a humanitarian hero of theirs. We walked under a bridge I’d passed earlier that day, which now boasted cheeky artwork mocking racist political leaders. There were people everywhere: singing, playing guitar, talking, and of course depleting the stock of boxed wine that was perched a ledge. Truth be told, it was better than most wines I’d had from the region—my Czech friend Kuba swears I haven’t had good Moravian wine yet, but I’m not convinced that such a thing exists. Tomas’s girlfriend, Lucie, introduced me to more of their friends (who seemed to all be named Tomas) who then invited me to get drinks with them. The OG Tomas went silent while the rest of us discussed why I was there, what vegans were all about, and just about

everything else—loudly. Two of them (both named Tomas) drove me back to the hostel later. I was to meet them tomorrow for the rally. I was the first to get there, and finally realized what I was doing. I, a rather toasty brown woman, was about to walk with a group of very, very white people who were planning on blocking a large group of Neo-Nazis from parading to a graveyard. It started to drizzle as a crowd with swastika-themed flags in hand grew nearer. Police started to creep along the outside of our group. The flags veered away— they knew we were there, and they decided to take a different path. We sped over to stop them— When we found the way to divert them, we found the path blocked by police slowly advancing toward us. And behind us. And

from the sides. Lucie, her friend, and I slipped out sideways; as the police wrapped around our group, a woman looked down at the street from a window two stories up. She pressed her fist against her mouth as she leaned against the window screen to stare while the police pressed the group tighter and tighter. They held them there as the Neo-Nazis marched on. When they’d passed, the police began to let people out, demanding their IDs before they let them go. Lucie and her friend hustled me to the bus station, with our hoods all up in the rain, not speaking. They waited with me until I got on the bus. I don’t know what they would have done with me and my American ID. I don’t know what they would have done if they’d seen me at all.

HALLSTATT, AUSTRIA Early morning light graced our arrival to Hallstatt as The Stephanie, pictured in front of the church, ferried us across the lake.

by JACK DAVIDSON

My Zorita by JENNY LEVINE

he weather over the course of three weeks almost becomes a nuisance. I know how the system works: on the hike up to the castle, I’ll be holding my arms tight for warmth. When we reach, the cool air will settle. By the time we start digging, the ungodly blight in the sky will unleash its hellfire. I try to think about this hellfire when I have to grab the day’s water from the village’s fountain, when the air around me is indistinguishable, dark and frigid. I think about the warm Spanish sun when I attempt to finish off my toast and olive oil breakfast before carrying the tools to the top of the steep 12th century

“. . .when the air around me is indistinguishable, dark and frigid. I think about the warm Spanish sun. . .

”

castle-fortress. I almost lose my footing at the trickiest part of the daily ascent. Towards the narrow entrance in front of the restored church is almost a 45 degree angle of stone, smoothed with age. On the meters-long climb, tripping is a near certainty if you do not have the right gear. My $10 sneakers from Wal-Mart seem to be an efficient tool to combat this 900 year-old obstacle. Before I enter the crumbling entrance to the fortress, I turn for one last look. The wide Tajo River cuts through

Experiencing Spain’s history in archaeological sites

the sleeping medieval village whose houses litter the shadow of the castle. It is a view that I could try to paint, but I would fail to capture its simplistic beauty. Once my friend has laid down the wheelbarrow and the cooler full of ham and cheese sandwiches, Catalina, our head archaeologist, doles out roles for the day. I am assigned the much sought after position of baggy girl. There is a highly technical term out there for the person who collects the samples of the finds and categorizes them, but for the sake of simplicity, I am the baggy girl. I’m hoping for the same as usual: charcoal, bits of pottery, and the occasional bronze piece. I lead the pack in grabbing our sandwiches, stashed inside the emptied church, towards our cafeteria: the underground. We don’t know exactly what this place was used for (a subterranean refrigerator? an armory?) but in the summer of the 21st century, it serves as a cool refuge. The entrance is simply a cavernous hole in the ground, and to get down is almost as perilous as entering the fortress in the first place. Wasps flit around the first steps, and the last steps are not so much steps as holes in the side of the wall. Once I enter the anteroom, the immediate relief of cool, earthy air meets the sweat that already covers my sunburnt face. During lunch, we groan about another day of ham and cheese, and laugh about the night before in the near darkness of the anteroom. The Christian knights who constructed this part of the castle-fortress did not install mod-

ern amenities; unless you are situated near the wasp-infested entrance, conversation takes place in dungeon-esque lighting. After each day of digging, we draw the site as a whole, as well as our findings, then make predictions about what the tools and area could have been used for. My favorite spot is the flattened Mediterranean-style roof at the top of the church spire, where you can curl up in a round enclave and draw the stretch of the site. From the roof, I see the other site where a couple of our group’s members were working on the church’s graveyard. The descent back towards the hostel is much quicker when you are half running, filled with anticipation to jump in the river. You wouldn’t dare take a dip before June, as the frigid mountain temperatures and strong current would take your breath away (in a darkly literal sense), but after a six hour work day on site, we dive right in. Days at Zorita Castle are often too long when you do not find more than a pile of ash, but the thrill of finding skeletons in places they ought not to be and jumping down a cistern full of medieval trash can elate even the most anti-historical bunch. Spain is distinct for having accepted Christians, Muslims, and Jews over different periods, and its archaeology reflects its diversity. Spain’s buried secrets are waiting to be unearthed. I may not want to be a professional archaeologist, but I’ll sure as hell join in to explore.

LOCATIONS VISITED

8 4

1 2 3

5 6

Castle of Zorita de los Canes-Alcazaba de Zorita GUADALAJARA, SPAIN

Recópolis

GUADALAJARA, SPAIN

Numancia

SORIA, SPAIN

Emerita Augusta MERIDA, SPAIN

Alcazaba of Mérida MERIDA, SPAIN

Alcazaba of Almería ALMERÍA, SPAIN

El Born Cultural Centre BARCELONA, SPAIN

Carranque Roman Villa TOLEDO, SPAIN

4 Tips for Visiting Archaeological Sites

Research the site before you get there. Most sites will have a sign explaining its significance, but if it’s in a country where you don’t speak the language, it’s not guaranteed. Plus, reading about a historical event or culture before you visit the site just makes it more exciting.

Wear practical clothing. Everyday on site, I wore my Wal-Mart sneakers, cargo pants and an old t-shirt. It wasn’t cute, but you might find yourself trekking up a steep hill or hiking through a thorny field (it wasn’t fun).

If there is yellow tape, do not cross. Don’t be that tourist who just had to jump on an ancient wall for a picture only to break a piece of irreplaceable history. Unless an artifact is in a large dumping zone, don’t take it. Even if an object looks unassuming, it can be crucial.

Ask questions! Whether it’s an archaeologist and her team or a museum’s staff, people working at the site are experts and love talking about their passion. Pick someone who’s not too busy and introduce yourself!

PEST HILL-, ELBA, ITALYBUDAPEST "A man The drive andfrom a little Meran, girl cast a shadows town nestled onto down a smallinstreet the valley, in Elba. upElba to San is aLeonardo Mediterin Passiria ranean island welcomed in Tuscanyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the a changelargest in scenof ery Tuscan the and weather. Archipelago. Trees became scarce and snow started to fall.

by KIRA BODEN-GOLOGORSKY by JACK DAVIDSON

VENICE V

enice loses much of its charm to hordes of tourists. The streets along the Grand Canal are constantly clogged with tour groups—faces glued to cameras—standing smack in the middle of cobblestone passages. Trying to avoid the endless stream of people (not to mention the glaring heat of the late June sun), I left the maze of main stradas for a tranquil alleyway, free of congestion. The cobblestones came to an abrupt end as I reached one of the smaller canals, compelling me to sit awhile and take a breath, away from the suffocating crowds. I had only been exploring Venice by foot for a few hours, but already had conflicting feelings towards the city. It would be ludicrous to deny that the city is beautiful—houses so tilted it seems impossible that they could remain standing, warm light caught in the embrace of a narrow canal, the glistening water that pumps life through the city—but there was also something about Venice that made me claustrophobic. I constantly sought less populated routes. Sitting along one of the smaller canals, the peace

ESCAPING THE CROWDS by WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH

that I stumbled upon quickly vanished. A gondola passed by in a manner that was nothing if not picturesque, a water bug gliding across the surface—but it was followed by another and another, then two more, until my quiet spot was sucked into a traffic jam. I sighed, disappointed, wanting so badly to be excited by the idea of taking a romantic gondola ride through the city’s veins. Instead, it seemed passive. I would have to find another way to lose myself in the labyrinth of waterways that make Venice so enchanting. The next day, after a ferry ride out of the city’s center to the island of Certosa, I carried a kayak and paddle down a long dock. With a group of four others, I listened to a guide explain safety measures in broken English before submitting to a thick layer of sunscreen and a drab sunhat, and finally climbing into my kayak. Before we could enter the passage of canals, we first had to cross the Venetian lagoon. Bobbing up and down over waves in the wake of passing ferry boats, I felt small—a welcome change after getting trapped in the pedestrian bottleneck. Paddling in a kayak gave

me a new freedom, as I ducked under tiny bridges and squeezed down narrow passageways, too small for even the most skillful gondolier to navigate through. For the first time since arriving in Venice, I wasn’t limited by dead ends, tourist surpluses, or gondola gridlocks. After crossing the lagoon, I sat, floating, in an old naval yard, where ribs of massive ships once lay, awaiting completion. Then, snaking through the canals, I paddled under lines of laundry, past eroding façades of houses, alongside Venetians in their motorboats. Our guide occasionally shouted historical facts over her shoulder, but the “tour” had nothing in common with a sluggish bus ride past a city’s major monuments. I was able to tune out and get lost in the character of the buildings, bridges, and boats. While I may not be able to add ‘gondola ride’ to my list of adventures, I believe I chose the more fulfilling experience, foregoing the abundance of gondolas and persuasive gondoliers for the freedom of a kayak and paddle.

by LILY McMAHON

ctober 31st, 2016, 3:26 AM–I am at the train station in Bucharest. I pace the plain tiles in the dim fluorescence. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cigarettes and perfume, the sounds of guttural snores. I am surrounded by stocky men in bomber jackets and tweed caps, women with bedazzled sneakers and bonnets. I crunch a game of solitaire on a plastic chair while sipping on a 1 lei vending machine mokachino, trying to stay awake for my train into Transylvania. Transylvania, the setting for Bram Stoker’s Dracula, is a real place. And I am visiting on Halloween. At 6 AM, my train shoots into the pink shadows of a Romanian sunrise. I watch as the flatlands ruffle into the Bucegi Mountains. The spindly brush of reds, greens, and golds blurs into motion that evades my camera. It is an elusive beauty that feels curiously supernatural. My train arrives in Brasov, a preserved medieval city in the heart of Transylvania. Other than quaint cobblestone paths and pastel paints, the first thing I notice is the city’s Hollywood-esque sign. One of five in Romania, the sign lights up the spooky shadows along the overarching Tâmpa Mountain. After changing out of my snow drenched slippers

(not the most practical choice) and putting on my thematic, albeit touristy fangs, I embark on my first outing: a Halloween themed tour of the city. Our guide is a spunky local who giggles as she describes traditional Romanian folklore. She tells us about witch trials and human sacrifices, which resulted in spirits haunting the buildings. She explains that Vlad the Impaler, the violent tyrant on whom Dracula is based, actually grew up in Wallachia, which is located south from Brasov. However, it is not surprising that Stoker chose to set his story in Transylvania. Medieval churches, heavy mists, and and howling wildlife colour the landscape, acting as clear inspiration for our modern myths of ghosts, werewolves, and yes, vampires. Although there are no bats, there are wolves and wild bears roaming the mountains, one of which, our guide comically mentions, bit off the finger of an American tourist just this week. Indeed, after learning the background, Transylvania is just as much, if not more, of an enigma. Transylvania literally translates to “beyond the forest.” It is a region characterised by mystery and imagination, blending the worlds of the natural and the supernatural in a sweep of autumnal fog. By the end of the tour, my feet are pulsing numb through my stockings. To warm up, our guide gives us each a shot of homemade cherry brandy. The liquor burns my chest and I feel like I’ve absorbed the gothic spirit of a Transylvanian Halloween—the heated red drink reminds me of pumping blood. There is but one thing to say: noroc! Cheers!

NARLAI, INDIA A man enters a temple in a mountain cave in Narlai, India. Though the Rajisthani village is rural, it is full of cultural and historic charm. The village is known in particular for its hidden cave and rock temples, which range from modest to ornate, the most impressive being those of Adinath and Lord Shiva.

by OLIVIA PETERS

OVER THE BRIDGE

“J

ust build a bridge and get over it” is an overused, meaningless statement. If it were that simple, I would have done it by now, I thought as I sat by the Sydney Opera house, sipping a cider and admiring the Sydney Harbor Bridge. Although the structure in itself is iconic, it didn’t immediately strike me. It was a great view: on this winter morning the sky was clear and the sun was blinding. The ocean was the kind of blue that kids pick out of crayon boxes and the waves were foaming white. The bridge just didn’t happen to be in my focus. At some point in my four week stay, I decided that since I was traveling alone, I should do something adventurous— something none of my friends would expect me to do. Funny enough, while Googling “adventurous things to do in Sydney,” I came across the Sydney

by ANDRINA VOEGELE

Harbor Bridge Climb. I’m scared of heights. This was perfect. I chose to climb at twilight. We climbed for nearly two hours before we reached the top. Although I could feel the wind pulling at my clothes and hear the distant noise of cars racing across the road below us, I was too distracted by the stunning view to be afraid. The fiery colors that lit up the sky were such a stark contrast to the dark ocean water. Before you knew it, the sun had sunk into that dark water somewhere off the horizon, leaving an orange glow over everything that slowly faded into a starry, black night. I let my eyes wander; the city looked so small from up here. I could see how far it sprawled. In the dark, I could spot thousands of lights all the way to the horizon. My trek up the bridge happened to overlap Vivid, a light show festival with incredible laser and light installations. A spectacle that, from

high up above on the pinnacle of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, was absolutely breathtaking. The colorful lasers beamed in a carefully choreographed routine into the pitch black sky. Every once in awhile, it swept over the group and momentarily blinded me before I could go back to taking it all in. The Sydney Opera House caught my eye every so often with the soft glow illuminating the beautiful structure. Standing up there, I felt so removed from the city, and yet it felt very intimate with the darkness hiding us from below. It was only when the light beams shined over us on the bridge that we were reminded that we were a part of the city, too. I ended up experiencing more heart racing activities—I found enough courage to jump out of a plane by the end of the month— but nothing else took my breath away in quite the same way.

Battle of the Philly Cheesesteaks PAT’S KING OF STEAKS VS. GENO’S STEAKS by IZZIE RAMIREZ

he story goes that brothers Pat and Harry Olivieri invented the famous sandwich while they were bored in 1933. A cab driver smelled the steaks, got a sandwich, and told all his friends about it. The cheesesteak was born. However, Geno’s owner Joey Vento claimed he’s the one who put the “cheese” in “cheesesteak,” and believes that provolone is superior to whiz.

The question is: which is better? Kylee and I went to Geno’s for lunch. I ordered the Milano, a cheesesteak with tomatoes. Of course, I chose provolone and I had to get the onions. It’s a must. Every bite of that sandwich was heavenly. The cheese fries we shared weren’t as good. Perhaps it’s because we both believe that Ben’s Chili Bowl in Washington, D.C. has the best cheese fries. Regardless, the fries were thin and mushy.

Even the fries that had no whiz on them were soggy. It was gross. Later in the night, we went to Pat’s. I ordered the regular cheesesteak with provolone and onions. There wasn’t enough cheese and the meat was super chewy. I asked Kylee, who ordered whiz on hers, how her sandwich was: she found that the meat in hers was fine and that her sandwich was dripping in cheese. The overall experience at Geno’s was way better than at Pat’s.

PAT’S KING OF STEAKS

GENO’S STEAKS

Made with Love

Price is cheaper

Steak is well seasoned and easy to chew

Bread is softer

Onions had a sweet flavor

1:2

Perfect cheese-tomeat ratio

by MARIE BAILEY

FRISCO, COLORADO

Mastering the Mountain

t’s 4:30 AM on a Saturday in late August and most of the town of Frisco, Colorado is asleep. My father and I are the exception. We stumble, bleary-eyed, out of our motel and load our provisions into the back of his Nissan Altima, hardly the vehicle for traversing mountain roads. We’ve driven for hours already, and we’re about to drive even more. Rest isn’t coming anytime soon. Dad, armed with a bottle of iced coffee, slides into the front seat and I clamber into the back, hoping I can squeeze in a little more shut-eye. The air outside is cool. The sky is dark. We’re about to climb the tallest mountain in Colorado. 14,000-foot peaks—or “fourteeners,” as they are otherwise known— are not the first thing to come to mind when people hear the words “tourist attraction.” Nevertheless, they consistently draw travelers from all over the country, with promises of otherworldly summits and views that put the rest of the Midwest to shame. After deciding to spend the summer climbing mountains—real mountains—I soon discovered that ascending these giants seems to be a significant aspect of Coloradoan culture, almost a rite of passage for the alpine-inclined. Although their levels of devotion vary, peak-baggers and novices can agree: climbing a fourteener is no picnic. In retrospect, I’m not sure I understood this until I found myself slogging up a scree-covered slope tens of thousands of feet above sea-level, filthy, sore, simultaneously too hot and too cold, slightly nauseous, with the feeling that my lungs were about to fail me. I recall talking to a fellow climber on my way down from Mount Lincoln, who uttered the truest statement to ever be said about climbing a fourteener: “You have to earn it.” And earn it you shall, if you ever decide to give one of these mountains a try. I am by no means an expert, but the biggest piece of advice I can give to anyone thinking of climbing a four-

teener, or any mountain, for that matter, is to pay attention to your body. Humans are hardly designed to be fourteen thousand feet high, so it is imperative that you do what you need to do to take care of your body, whether that means resting, slowing down, or stopping altogether and turning back. Safety first. This means starting out as early as possible and turning around as soon as you notice any adverse weather moving in. This becomes increasingly important the higher you go, which is why you should climb with someone else, preferably someone experienced. Take it slow, stay hydrated, and watch your step. Stay on the trail. The mountain isn’t going anywhere. Research your hike; it is critical to understand what you’re getting into when you climb a mountain. I am lucky to have my father, a former rock climber, at my aid, who was more than happy to delve into the finer points of route planning, obtaining proper equipment, and researching the mountains’ difficulty levels. For those without a handy climbing expert, read guidebooks, invest in some quality hiking boots, and plan your day carefully. When you reach the top, you’ll find that the work is well worth it. Being above tree line is an experience like no other—the view is breathtaking (and not just because the air is so thin). There’s something magical about being this far removed from the rest of the normal world, higher than most creatures will ever venture. An alpine realm stretches as far as the eye can see in every direction, dotted with peaks perpetually blanketed in snow. It’s a brief glimpse into a world we seldom see, and by far one of the most unique and fulfilling experiences to be had in Colorado. Climbing a fourteener may not be for everyone, but if you happen to find yourself near the Rocky Mountains (and perhaps feeling a little masochistic), I can promise you that it’s worth the climb.

Tamale Taxi “A re you sure you know where the guesthouse is?" I ask the taxi driver. His face breaks into a sheepish grin. “Not really. But let’s go. It’s okay.” I bite my lip and weigh the options. Do we take a chance with him and hope we find the guesthouse we’re staying in, or do we ask someone else? As a friend starts grilling the cab driver, I take in the surroundings, staring as the city of Tamale whirs around us. It is Ramadan, and the central market is teeming with people in the late afternoon sun. It is hot and everyone has sweat gleaming on their foreheads. It is always hot in Tamale, which is situated in the northernmost part of Ghana. The majority of the city is Muslim and has been that way since its founding hundreds of years ago. Christians also live and practice in Tamale and the two communities live together in a peaceful tandem. In Tamale, people wear traditional dress or t-shirts and shorts,

by OPHELI LAWLER

all made from thin, breathable fabric. There are less taxis and cars on the streets than there are motorbikes, which people seem to prefer as they make navigating the busy roads much easier. Across the street from the market is a gas station, known for servicing everything from bikes to cars to the NGO trucks. The parking lot often looks like a UN convention with vehicles from countries all over the world. The day before, a city guide took us through the market, which was filled with meat, vegetables, clothing, ointments, trinkets, and everything else imaginable. It was easy to get lost inside this maze of a market, as the paths seemed to jut off at random. Apart from manning stalls, people of all ages also walked around selling sachets of water and snacks from baskets that they balanced on their heads. When left to our own devices on the second day, it takes us twice as long to get out of the market. Finally we make it to the street;

no one remembers what street our guesthouse is on. The best we can do is determine that it is in the general direction of Left. We take this information to our prospective taxi driver. At first he says he doesn’t know it. As we walk away, he shouts for us to wait; on second thought, he knows. This is when I ask him, again. The sheepish grin. As we stand there contemplating what to do, we see a cab with other members of our group zipping by, undoubtedly going to the guesthouse. We point at the cab excitedly. “Can you follow him?” The man’s eyes jump with excitement. “Yes! That I can do!” We pile into the cab, stumbling in like a scene from a poorly written sitcom. People give us passing quizzical glances, but no one seems too occupied with our erratic movements. The taxi peels off the curb, dust flying into the open windows. The sides of the blue and orange car rattle as we race down the road.

ELBA, ITALY

by KIRA BODEN-GOLOGORSKY