Baedeker Spring 2018 by Baedeker Travel Magazine

BAEDEKER T R AVE L M A G A Z I N E SPRING 2018

TABLE OF CONTENTS

LATIN AMERICA Fleeting Paradise....................... 10 by C.A. Meyer The City of Colors and Flavors 11-12 by Veda Kamra

EUROPE War and Peace in Mostar........... 3-4 by Mathilde van Tulder A 24-Hour Taste of Kreuzberg, Berlin......................................... 5-6 by Anna Ferkingstad Airing the Laundry...................... 7-8 by Katherine Craig The City of Light, Sans Light.......... 9 by Willa Tellekson-Flash

NORTH AMERICA Winter on the California Coast 13-14 by Jake Noori For the Rest of Us....................... 15 by Josh Siegel Baldy the Little, but Fierce, Mountain ..................................................... 16 by Frances Yackel Snapshot: California, USA..... 17-18 by Jake Noori Around the Bend........................ 19 by Hannah Benson ASIA Shanghai: The Future That Is Now ............................................................20 by Savannah Billman Snapshot: Jaipur, India........... 21-23 by Saanya Ali The Gurdwara Bangla Sahib......... 24 by Sonali Mathur

9 13

16 29

AFRICA An Unexpected Oasis........... 29-30 by Jack Davidson MIDDLE EAST The Night Tourist....................... 31 by Jenny Levine OCEANIA Sydney Port of Connection........ 32 by Kristina Hayhurst New Zealand......................... 33-34 by Joey Solomon Australia: The Land Down Under .................................................. 35-36 by Anna Letson DEPARTURE ............................... 37 by Editorial Staff

5 7 3

28 31

Snapshot: Colombo, Sri Lanka 25-26 by Stella Levantesi Sri Lanka.......................................... 27 by Stella Levantesi The Road Less Traveled................. 28 by Raeva Sayed

24 21

32 35 33

(cover) Hidden directions, on the road in New Zealand. photo by Joey Sullivan (right) Morning mist blankets tea plantations in Munnar, Kerala—a hilly town in the Western Ghat mountain range—right after sunrise. photo by Saanya Ali

Editors’ Letter Traveling means something different to everyone. For some, it means exploring urban cities—sightseeing, dining in reputable restaurants, or visiting countless museums. For others, it means adventuring in the outdoors— climbing mountains, falling asleep to the sounds of nearby wildlife, or taking in the scenery below the ocean's surface. For some, traveling involves airplanes; for others, travel means cars, busses, or boats. While traveling can require stamps on a passport at times, it can also take the form of a few simple miles between the familiar and the new. Each semester, as we read through the submissions that fill our inbox, we are struck by the incredible stories that each contributor has to tell. Though the places they describe vary drastically, ranging, in the case of this edition, from New Orleans to Paris, Mongolia, and New Zealand, the writers and photographers whose work fill the pages of Baedeker each create a connection with some element of their surroundings. And for

us, that is the thread that joins all of these definitions of traveling. Traveling is storytelling. As our fourth and final year with Baedeker comes to a close, we look back at each edition that we have had the pleasure to be a part of producing with a sense of wonder. Just as traveling is a privilege, it is a privilege for us to experience the journeys of others through their words and photographs. We’re so grateful for the staff and contributors we’ve been lucky enough to work with, and look forward to continuing to read the stories,

motivated by curiosity and a desire to make connection, that will fill the pages of the issues to come. We leave Baedeker in the hands of Frances Yackel and Kristina Hayhurst, two capable and equally curious editors. We are excited to see how they, like us and the editorsin-chief that led Baedeker before us, choose to shape and grow the Baedeker community at NYU.

ANNA FERKINGSTAD | editor in chief

JACK DAVIDSON | creative director

WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH | editor in chief

MATHILDE VAN TULDER | events & distribution

ETHAN SAPIENZA | managing editor

CHEYENNE KLEINBERG | social media editor

FRANCES YACKEL | managing editor

ZOYA TO | illustrator

JENNY LEVINE | secretary

JULIA ZITA | treasurer

north america editors MARISA LOPEZ MORGAN KUIN

europe editors NIDHI BHAGAT HANNAH BENSON

africa editors PHOENIX CHEN EMMA PETTIT

latin america editor OPHELI LAWLER THALIA WILOTO

asia editors BEVERLY TAN OLIVIA SOTIRCHOS

middle east editors ZEIN NASSER KRISTINA HAYHURST

layout team STEPHANIE PAN KATIE SUN ERIN PAK CLAIRE WANG SAM WINSLOW BONNIE CHAN AMBER ZHENG

oceania editor MIRA BLECHERMAN

nyubaedeker@gmail.com | nyubaedeker.wordpress.com

War and Peace in Mostar Bosnia-Herzegovina by MATHILDE VAN TULDER

View of Mostar, Bosnia & Herzegovina from western hills overlooking the city.

ostar’s architecture can be summarized in one word: dichotomy. There is an inevitable congruity between the physical characteristics of the city and the spirit of the community that exists within it. Each stone is imprinted with Mostar’s complicated history, as the extensive era of harmonious ethnic and religious coexistence is as visible as the deep gash left in the wake of the hatefueled civil war in the early 1990s. While Mostar’s skyline is defined by the mingling of minarets and church towers high above the rooftops, empty building carcasses at every street corner serve as a stark reminder of the atrocities that rattled the city not so long ago.

Overlooking Pocitelj, a small village on the outskirts of Mostar.

View from Sniper Tower of the rebuilt city hall building.

Western bank of the Neretva River in the old town center of Mostar.

Eastern Bank of the Neretva in the old town center of Mostar.

Old Bridge of Mostar, reconstructed in 2004 after its destruction during the Bosnian War in 1993.

A 24-Hour Taste of Kreuzberg, Berlin by ANNA FERKINGSTAD

erlin has long allured visitors with its progressive art, imaginative nightlife, and tangible history. Less enticing, however, has been the city’s food. Many leave the city with nothing more than the taste of sub-par Döner Kebab (a Turkish kebab made of meat roasted on a vertical rotisserie) remaining in their mouth, and a Currywurst (a fast food dish consisting of sausage and curry-ketchup) stain on their t-shirt. Today, nearly 30 years

after the fall of the Berlin Wall, the city is experiencing something of a gastronomical renaissance. Berlin is no longer defined only by its Oktoberfest fair and touristtrap food stands. Instead, it is increasingly associated with an inventive and culturally-diverse array of restaurants and market spaces. The resolve and creativity that has defined the city in other cultural facets since the early 1900s is finally (and rightfully so) permeating the food industry.

Leave your beer mugs at home and dispel any expectations of sausage, pretzel, and Limburger cheese. To experience the full breadth of the city’s culinary offerings, I recommend turning to the neighborhood of Kreuzberg. An area of Berlin characterized by its large working-class, migrant population, Kreuzberg provides a glimpse into the enticing food offerings of Germany’s political capital and most ethnically diverse city.

12 PM 10 AM

Oranienstraße

Frühstück at Mokkabar Berlin is slow to rise—most cafés and coffee shops won’t open until 9 or 10 a.m. Start your morning with a filling breakfast at charac teristically German Mokkabar. The prices here are reasonable, the portions are large, and the coffee is strong. Enjoy the selection of cheese, bread, fruit, and Quark (a German fresh curd) while reading the morning’s newspaper or people-watching through the window. Also, note that an Americano is the closest alternative in many German cafés to a drip coffee.

1 PM Once you’ve finished your food and feel ready for the day, walk towards the Hallesches Tor U-Bahn station. Stop briefly into the café and general store Hallesches Haus to admire the selection of plants, clothing, and household goods before hopping on the subway towards Görlitzer Bahnhof. The short above-ground ride offers a rare elevated peek at the pastel, graffitied apartment buildings that characterize the area. The Görlitzer Bahnhoff station places you on Oranienstraße, a street brimming with bikes, stores, restaurants, and bars.

Mittagessen at Ora When you’re ready for Mittagessen (lunch), continue west on Oranienstraße until you encounter a building with a large sign reading “Apothecary.” Located in a former pharmacy, Ora offers a delicious, recently revamped lunch menu in a memorable, cozy space. Choose from a variety of meat and grain dishes and finish your meal with something sweet. In the evening, the space also transitions to a snazzy cocktail bar.

Head south to the Landwehr Canal. If you’re lucky enough to be visiting on a Tuesday or Friday, you’ll spot the bright red stands of the Turkish Market along the water on Maybachufer Strasse. One of the largest street markets in the city, the Türkischer Markt offers an array of Turkish specialties, including a variety of sweets and baked goods. Sample the pistachio-covered Baklava, a spinach and feta Gözleme, or Simit, a mild sesame bread often found in the shape of a ring.

Turkish Market on Maybachufer

Continue along the canal to a Kreuzberg classic, Five Elephant. This small café spills onto the sidewalk during the warmer months. Grab a seat at one of the green metal tables under the trees and order a slice of their classic cheesecake. In Germany, it’s a common tradition to share a Kaffee und Kuchen (coffee and cake) between lunch and dinner, and there’s no better place than this neighborhood favorite.

An Espresso at Five Elephant 5 PM

3 PM

8 PM 11 PM

Bar Hopping with a Maté 3 AM

A Late Night Döner Kebab After the long night out, head to the closest Imbiss, a small snackbar or restaurant. Order a Döner Kebab and choose to have it served on a plate, in a pita, or wrapped in Dürüm, a thin flatbread. Thought to have originated in the 19th century Ottoman Empire, döner is a Turkish kebab similar to Arab shawarma or Greek gyros. The sandwich often contains meat, tomato, cabbage, onion, fresh or pickled cucumber, and various types of sauces, creating the perfect bite to end the long day.

Tired? Grab a bottle of Club Mate to help you power through the evening. Distinguished by its bright blue and gold labels, Club Mate (pronounced MAH-teh) is a highly caffeinated, fizzy tea and a Berlin cult-favorite. Choose between the pink graffitied Barbie Deinhoff’s, the smoky and neon Twin Peaks-themed Black Lodge, or the vine-filled Dschungel. While the bars’ respective motifs sound odd, they create an atmosphere for a bar-hopping experience that can only be found in Berlin. If it’s a weekend evening, continue the night at any of Berlin’s clubs—you won’t be lacking for choice. The city is notorious for its nightlife and techno music.

Abendessen (Dinner) Skip the Schnitzel and Bratwurst recommended by older guidebooks—you have plenty of more exciting options. If it’s a Thursday evening, join the crowds at Markthalle Neun’s Street Food Thursday. A staple of Berlin’s quickly evolving food scene, Street Food Thursday offers a little something for everyone. Here you’ll find tacos, Syrian food, and even the southern German specialty, Spätzle (a dish of soft, cheesy egg noodles) in one, street food-inspired space. On any other day of the week, look for Cocolo along the canal for arguably the best ramen in the city. Or, on Oranienstraße, Hasir is a favorite for large Turkish meals of hummus and kebab.

Airing The Laundry by KATHERINE CRAIG

fter my first day in the cold and gray—yet strikingly beautiful—city of Venice, I decided I needed an escape. The next day, I took a long ride on a vaporetto—a water bus—to Burano, a small island located northeast of the main island. Known for its faded, pastel houses and the production of lace, Burano was swamped with tourists. However, I was struck by the beauty of the hanging laundry, serving as the only evidence of the island’s residents. The delicate strings of clothes were hung out to dry in the weak winter sun, as their owners stayed hidden behind forest colored doors, or remained tucked away deep in souvenir shops. As I wandered through the small island, I marveled at the draping laundry, which simultaneously gave the island life and hinted at the eerie lack of visible locals.

1. The mid-morning sun casts a shadow on these Burano homes, slicing into their vibrant colors. According to locals, fishermen painted them such rich hues in order to find their way home. 2. A pink bike in an empty alleyway serves as another indicator of the presence of locals, who nevertheless go unseen. 3. A load of whites hangs out to dry, contrasting against the cerulean house behind it. 4. The pastel homes pop, with opposing colors juxtaposed against one another, creating a vibrant sight.

he first thing I am aware of when I step off of the bus is how incredibly dark it is. The early April chill hits me next, followed by an eerie sense of silence. I look around at the other exiting passengers, wondering if they are experiencing this too. They all appear unaffected, leaving the parking lot with a sense of purpose, only slowed by their exhaustion from a poor night’s sleep. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and Paris has never felt so empty. I’m often the first to declare my love for France. French is my second language; France, my second home. My eyes light up at the thought of long evenings around the dinner table with multiple bottles of wine, and I’m

quite proud of my ability to make colorful macarons. Paris was the first city I ever dreamt of. The Eiffel Tower sparkling like a Christmas tree, the warmth of candlelit bistros at dusk, or the sun illuminating cobblestone streets—there was an inviting light about Paris, whether the sun was up or not. The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower, my fifteen-year-old self got a little bit choked up; the first time I ordered a baguette at a boulangerie, my excitement paralleled a goldmedaling Olympian. Though it sounds like I am exaggerating, I assure you I am not. Usually, I feel incredibly at ease on French soil, reassured by my ability to communicate and navigate. But when my overnight

bus from Amsterdam arrives in the parking lot that doubles as a bus station, my sense of comfort is nowhere to be found. I have to catch another bus to Rennes, a city in the northwestern department of Brittany, in about four hours, and I had been hoping to simply park myself in a bus station in the interim, only to venture out for a hot chocolate when the sun came up. It is clear that that plan is no longer a possibility. A traveler’s backpack weighing on my shoulders and a neck pillow bouncing at my hip, I see no other option than to start walking. Aware of how touristy I look with The North Face’s logo plastered across the bag on my back, I check over my shoulder every minute or two, afraid to find

THE CITY OF LIGHT,

SANS LIGHT by WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH

someone only steps behind me. I worry I am the perfect target for someone looking to steal a foreigner’s wallet, cell phone, or camera. The sidewalks are deserted, the storefronts black. Even McDonald’s is closed, much to my surprising dismay. On any other day, I would not dare be seen inside a McDonald’s in Paris, but as I walk through the shadows of the sleeping city, any source of light—even the off-putting fluorescent light of a fast food chain—would be comforting. And so I keep walking. I walk to the Arc de Triomphe, which stands self-assuredly without a single car circling it. There is a pit in my stomach—I cannot stop checking over my shoulder, or clutching my phone in my pocket, anxious that someone will approach me

from behind. I continue down the Champs-Elysées, finding temporary comfort in the presence of bus boys starting to wash the sidewalks in front of their bistros. I turn right at some point, making my way towards the Eiffel Tower. Normally, I revel in time alone—especially when wandering a city—but for the first time in my solo-travels, I worry about my safety, acutely conscious that if anything is to happen, there is no one around to help me. I cross over the Seine, trying to determine from which direction the sun will rise. I circle the park, returning to the river, breathing a little bit easier as I notice the sky begin to lighten. My shoulders and feet are tired; my stomach is beginning to growl from all my walking. A glance at

my watch tells me it’s six-thirty. Surely there is a coffee shop that will be open by now? It’s another forty-five minutes before the streets are sufficiently populated for me to feel comfortable sitting down on a bench to eat the breakfast I’ve packed. I am conscious of how alone I feel, and it is that solitude that is likely at the root of the fear I’ve experienced this morning. At any other time of day, a two-hour walk around Paris sounds leisurely. I would be jealous of the solo traveler walking along the Seine at dusk, the bellies of the bridges twinkling in encouragement. But when its lights shut off, the City of Light loses much of its magic, leaving those without a place to go lost in a haunting darkness.

by C.A. MEYER

FLEETING PARADISE

he voyage to the Caribbean isle of Saint Barthélemy, better known as St. Bart’s, feels like a life-or-death situation. During the quick flight from St. Bart’s neighbor, St. Margin, I gripped the seat of the tiny jet, soaring over iridescent blue waters dotted with sailboats. The aircraft trembled and jolted above white sand beaches and green peaks until it finally slid onto the tongue of a tarmac that appeared between two rocky cliffs. We were to be there for a week, and I was already enchanted by its impossibility. Brightly colored Jeeps dart up and around steep hillsides. Their drivers have memorized the island’s grooves. Towering yachts with sprawling decks are briefly abandoned for Aperol Spritzes at the beachside cafés, kept company by an array of dinghies and schooners in the half-moon harbor of St. Bart’s capital, Gustavia. The finest luxury shops are stacked along cobblestone streets. Nightclubs pulse throughout the evening and into the early hours of the next day. While strolling along the shore, you’ll hear the pop of expensive champagne bottles and the subsequent cheers. I was instantly captivated, although slightly suspicious that someplace so seemingly perfect could exist in such an imperfect world. I was at a beach mid-morning, lounging on a cabana with a book held above my face, when rain began to trickle down. I thought I had finally found a fault with the island. Instead, everyone around me on the beach began to cheer. To my fascination, jewelry-decked bikini girls and well-groomed guys climbed onto the picnic tables under the arch of the bar and began to dance, while the DJ played Singin’ in the Rain by Gene Kelly, as if he had planned the downpour. The crowd shouted gleefully and sang along, passing drinks around and hailing

waiters to order more. The sun returned just five minutes later, at which point the dancers reluctantly climbed down from the tables. A rainbow hung brilliantly above the peaks, punctuating the end of the performance. It occurred to me, while languishing each day in the sun and counting the star-speckled sky each night, that St. Bart’s is a place between dimensions—where everyone is as beautiful as the island itself and the worries that they had brought with them when they landed were just as fleeting as the rain. On one of my last days on the island, I went scuba diving off the coast to admire the rows of coral reef on the seabed. Following the lead of my French instructor and his charming accent, I came upon the final resting place of a ship that had sunk there in the 1990s. It was tipped on its side, its massive hulls draped in watery grime. I swam over its giant rudder and peered in through the windows along the body of the boat. As I breathed steadily in and out of my regulator, I wondered if I’d remember the trip just as it was, or whether all these images would be lost to me once I left, like a dream you can’t quite recall upon waking. When I boarded the same rickety hopper jet to return to St. Martin and buckled the 70s-era seatbelt into place, I surveyed the expanse of the paradise. The pilot, who couldn’t have been more than 17, looked back at me and asked, “Ready to say goodbye?” I smiled as we slowly lifted off into the clouds. I remember St. Bart’s in fleeting images, tastes, and smells. It feels as if I’ve caught a glimpse of an elite secret society. Although I’ve visited the island, the enchantment of it has left me. I try to remember, desperately, but in a moment, it’s gone.

The City of Colors and Flavors by VEDA KAMRA

I BEGGED

my mother, my personal gastronomical guru, to come along with me for a little adventure. I was in Bogotรก, Colombia, and it was essential that I learn the preparation of a traditional meal using native fruits and vegetables. We must do a cooking class, I pleaded, practically pulling on her shirt-sleeve in the way that a small child would.

We approached a house at the foot of the mountain, Montserrate, where a local woman named Elsa had been waiting for us. After about a minute inside her house, we were out the door once more—this time on our way to the market. The market was small, with a brick entrance, green gates, and hand-painted signs. I found my eyes drawn to the walls, adorned with a selection of brightly colored fruits placed perfectly beneath the delicately hanging woven baskets. I was beaming as I pointed to each and every unfamiliar entity. “What’s this? And this? And this red one? And this one here—with the husk?” “Aracacho,” “lulo,” “tomate de arbol,” “uchava.” If the sight of these fruits was beautiful, their tastes were something else entirely. Lulo, which looks like a small orange tomato, has a sweet and citrus, almost candy-like flavor. Maracuya, a kind of passionfruit, has tough, thick skin that protects its annoyingly-large seeds, which challenge you as you attempt to extract its sweet fruit. Back at the house, she told us that she would be teaching us how to prepare ajiaco—a warm chicken and potato soup, a traditional dish of Bogotá. Elsa stripped the skin from the fresh, whole chicken that we had just gotten from the market, while my mother and I halved ears of corn. As we diced our vegetables and moved around the kitchen, I was surprised by how easy our conversations flowed, despite the language barrier. My mother and I found ourselves struggling to peel and chop with the same dexterity as Elsa. Rather, I struggled. My mother, a seasoned cook, did perfectly fine, while I fumbled with the small knife. I stopped to watch as Elsa expertly removed the skin from each potato in continual winding strips. Her artful coils of potato skins stood in stark contrast to my uneven stack of stubby patches. What can I say? It was a learning process. Lastly, after adding in salt and guascas, a flavorful herb, Elsa brought the pot to the table and carved the chicken, evenly distributing slices into everyone’s bowls. We sat in a row at a table draped with a bright red floral cloth. We devoured the food in front of us, topped off with a dollop of cream, and slices of large aguacate, or avocados. I always say that the best meals leave room for silence, to let the food speak for itself, but that evening, we spoke of our gratitude to Elsa. And when we strolled down the mountain towards the city-center, our bellies filled with warmth and our hearts full of love for all the things that this city had offered us.

Winter on the California Coast by JAKE NOORI

anuary in the northern coast of California is a time of rest. The throngs of crowds that hustle toward the seashore during the summer subside as the temperatures drop and the winter fog rolls in. Even with the empty beaches and the absence of summer heat, the coast in the winter is even more brilliant than

I remembered when I first visited as a child. The quiet that pervades the air gives rise to the sound of the Pacific Ocean crashing against the rocks. The January sunâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;an unlikely sightâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;illuminates the brilliant green of the grass and the jagged edges of the cliffs. Winter on the coast is not to be underestimated.

1, 2, 3, 4, 7: Point Reyes 5, 6: Santa Cruz

AROUND THE BEN D

by HANNAH BENSON

rowing up in the northern suburbs of Chicago, I never thought much of my city. While my hometown graced the screen in many John Hughes’ films, for me, it was a boring hellhole I couldn’t wait to escape. However, once senior year of high school came around, I started to feel a bit differently. In my AP English class, we read a poem called “Things I Didn’t Know I Loved” by Nazim Hikmet. It tells the story of a man on the PragueBerlin train realizing that he loves the environment around him. It is about taking a second look at what you have always known and finding new meaning in it. After reading this poem, my hometown burst open in front of me.

I loved Lake Michigan and days spent alone at the beach thinking about all to come. I loved the Art Institute of Chicago and wandering through its world class collection, finding something remarkable in each gallery. I loved Lou Malnati’s pizza no matter how much my college friends would come to mock the Chicago deepdish style. Most importantly, I loved the winding drive down Sheridan Road and seeing the beautiful houses along the water. My friend Ana and I drive along Sheridan frequently, picking our favorite houses and imagining the lives of those within them. We slow down at the point where the road begins to bend. It really is those bends that I

love. In winter they are graced with a gentle snowfall, during summer the sun shines through the trees. They force you to slow down and move with the road. Before the bends, Sheridan is a straight line and people drive fairly fast, moving towards their destination. But once you hit them, the whole world stops and the generic suburban environment feels intensely personal. I miss those bends. Living in New York City, the grid system takes over. Up one, over seven. Down two, over three. Each walk is a mathematical equation meant to take you to the nearest coffee shop or bookstore. I am still trying to find the bends.

he hike starts with a worndown wooden gate at the foot of a small hill. It stands alone, unaccompanied by a fence on either side. It doesn’t serve to keep anyone out or anything in, as any person or animal could easily walk around it. Rather, it sits at the foot of that hill, inviting people driving by to stop and explore the other side. t After the gate is an untamed field. The pathway is marked where the tall grass has been trampled by previous hikers. On a dry day, your ankles will itch from the hay grabbing at your legs. On a day after a bout of rain, your feet will sink into the soggy floor. In this field, the dog will take off into the surrounding woods, leaving behind the beaten path, so to speak. But the most dangerous thing that could happen to him is a spray from a skunk or a burr in his coat. So you keep going. The trodden grass leads you under the canopy of trees, where the ground begins to slope upward. t The grass stops at the edge of the woods and a muddy trail begins. Small salamanders crawl near your boots, peppering the brown ground with striking reds and oranges. The trail, outlined by a tiny trickling stream on the left and moss-covered roots and rocks on the right, meanders uphill through the forest. t Just fifteen minutes through the woods, and the sun will begin to peak through the leaves overhead, soaking the ground with warm rays. Just fifteen minutes, and you’ve made it to the peak. The muddy ground is replaced once more with the tall, wild grass. You’ll see the dog’s head rhythmically emerging and disappearing underneath the grass as he jumps around the wide-open space. t t And, if your breath has not been taken away by the walk uphill, it will be by what you see on the other side of the field.

BALDY

tGiven the short distance that it takes to reach the climax, you’d imagine the payoff would be—well— anticlimactic. Instead, you’re rewarded with a view of the endless rolling hills of Southern Vermont. The hills, climbing into the distance, are stacked on top of each other on the horizon, growing increasingly pastel in tone as they go on. And on. And on. If I didn’t know any better, I would think that I could see all of Vermont from this little hill. The colors of the landscape are like brushstrokes on a Van Gogh canvas, stretching across the great expanse under the sky. t This place, which my friends and family have unofficially named Baldy, because of the ‘bald’ field at the top, has become a crux of my childhood. As a Vermonter, hiking is as important to us as anything. But this particular hike far exceeds any other three, four, or five-hour outdoor excursion. A mile up the road from the house in which I was raised, this hill continues to offer countless sunset-soaked evenings, afternoon picnics, and overnight camping trips in warm flannel sleeping bags under the boundless sky. This hill continues to remind me that I don’t have to travel across oceans or trek up massive mountains to experience sublimity.

The Little, but Fierce, Mountain by FRANCES YACKEL

CALIFORNIA, USA The Point Reyes Lighthouse was built in 1870 and operated until 1975. During its 105-year life, the lighthouse endured extreme weather conditionsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; most notably, the 1906 San Francisco Earthquake. During the shock, the lighthouse moved 18 feet north in less than one minute. Other than a lens that slipped off its tracks, there was no other damage. The lighthouse now functions as a museum.

by JAKE NOORI

FOR THE

REST

OF US

by JOSH SIEGEL

e visited New Orleans with the hope of escaping New York’s less-than-desirable winter weather. Instead of being greeted by balmy southern air, we were hit with 30 degrees—a temperature foreign to Louisiana. The city was as confused by the weather as we were; pipes froze, highways shut down, and there was no salt for the roads blanketed in ice. Despite the frozen chaos, we remained determined to have a good time. Our mission for the first day: eat the best fried chicken of our lives. A friend native to the city recommended Willie Mae’s Scotch House. Their website’s photos of beautifully crisp chicken served with red beans and rice tantalized us for days leading up to the trip. We eagerly rushed to the front doors of Willie Mae’s, only to be greeted by a sign that read, “Our pipes are frozen! Closed for the day.” We were disappointed, sure, but nothing was going to stop us from finding that perfect crispy goodness we had been thinking about before setting foot in New Orleans. The backup plan was Man Chu Food, a corner store whose fried wings—according to the Eater NOLA blog— could rival Willie Mae’s. Man Chu was painted Barney purple and situated in the shadow of the highway.

Discreetly located past the aisles filled with chips and soda was a small window—the gateway to crispy heaven. Like most corner stores in the city, Man Chu made do with the little space they had, and did it well. We popped open the Styrofoam container and dug into the wings and drumsticks. Each piece was perfectly juicy on the inside with a crust that was filled with the slight heat of cayenne. The chicken wasn’t too oily, and

“OUR MISSION FOR THE FIRST DAY: EAT THE BEST FRIED CHICKEN OF OUR LIVES.” had just the right amount of crunch. We enjoyed the chicken in Louis Armstrong Park, on a bench overlooking a statue of the Jazz legend. We sat in silence, grins on our faces, as a small group huddled for warmth around the statue, showing respect for Satchmo. While in the security line at the airport, I heard a man say he was glad to be leaving this city. I’m assuming he never discovered the convenience store under the highway. There’ll be more chicken for the rest of us.

SHANGHAI:

The Future That Is No w by SAVANNAH BILLMAN photo by STEPHANIE PAN

Shanghai’s skyline is printed on billboards all over the city—building-sized LED advertisements frozen between the Shanghai and Pearl Towers. I remember showing one of these ubiquitous billboards to a visiting friend. She turned to me, wide-eyed, and asked, “Is this a picture of the future?” I couldn’t help but laugh and say, “No, it’s right now!” Living in Shanghai does sometimes feel like I’m living in the future. I pay for my metro rides and tuition with an app. I ride taxis on a network of neon blue highways suspended several stories in the air. I sip wine on rooftop bars and admire the futuristic skyline. These are the things I love to point out to visitors, using the shock-and-awe factor to impress. But they are far from the most memorable parts of this city. Last summer, I moved into an apartment close to my internship office. It was a fourth floor walk-up in a mint green building, guarded by a family of stray cats and vaguely tropical plants. My breakfast vendor across the street always remembered my order: a jianbing wrap with extra sauce and a side of soy milk. On my way to and from work, biking below the famous elevated highways, I’d spot Chinese aunties dancing on the sidewalk to American country music. I’d frequent the fruit stall run by the sweet woman who greeted me with a worn smile whenever I arrived to buy a dragon fruit and box of blueberries. These consistencies brought stability to my life that summer—a different kind of warmth than the grueling ninety-degree heat. New buildings come and go quickly in Shanghai, but my breakfast vendor always remembered to add a little extra sauce between the layers of crispy fried dough. If the Shanghai of the future seems untouchable and aloof from its billboard perch, the Shanghai of the present is curious and generous. I taught a group of children how to say “blizzard” in English and they taught me about the plum rains—the yearly downpour that floods Shanghai’s streets in June. At night, a group of rowdy men at an outdoor market wove a tall tale for me about the man who cooked my dinner, who was supposedly a Japanese secret agent. An old woman took me to her family’s Buddhist shrine, explaining her family’s historical connection to the temple. When my apartment’s repairman learned that I’m American, he asked for my help contacting an ex-girlfriend who had moved to California. In the future, I might live here permanently. But that summer, I was content to be a halfway inhabitant of the city, shifting from seeing Shanghai as a postcard image to a place I could tentatively call home. This is Shanghai as I saw it—winding bike rides, hidden galleries and dumpling shops, chatty market vendors—25 million lives unfolding under the skyline of the future that is now.

JAIPUR, INDIA A guard at City Palace in Jaipur watches over the crowds below.

by SAANYA ALI

JAIPUR, INDIA Leaving a restaurant in Delhi, a man takes a load of evening linens to be washed.

by SAANYA ALI

THE

Gurdwara by SONALI MATHUR

Bangla Sahib

n the midst of the hustle and bustle of New Delhi—the cacophony of the deafening car horns, the weak moos of the cows, and the general chatter of the populace—there stands a calming white structure to contrast it all. The Gurdwara Bangla Sahib, situated in the heart of the famous Connaught Place in India’s capital city is one of the most prominent gurdwaras (a place of worship for people of the Sikh religion) in New Delhi. Its golden dome glimmers from afar, unmistakeable in the foggy sky amidst the muted colours of the buildings surrounding it. The inside feels like another world. A devotional prayer constantly booms from the loudspeaker, enveloping chatter into its pious serenity. Nothing seems bothersome—neither the cold marble floor, nor the tiny toddlers running about with their toys, nor the hordes of people that inevitably congregate in this country of 1.3 billion people. People are at peace. There is a prayer room where Sikhs sit around a small golden stage. On the platform, a few men and women sit, singing. Outside, individuals and families soak in the prayers while walking slowly around the pool, known as the sarovar, in the middle of the gurdwara. The water in the sarovar is considered holy, meant to heal all mental and

physical ailments. There are orange and white speckled fish in this water. They gently rise up when they see human feet, blow water bubbles, and quietly glide away. Inside another room of the complex—a large hall—people sit cross-legged, shoulder-to-shoulder, back-to-back, in rows. Steel plates and glasses are placed in front of them as they wait patiently for the food and drinks being prepared in the kitchen off to the side. Volunteers emerge from behind the doors with enormous bowls and pitchers of tea, which they distribute

row-by-row, person-by-person. A scrawny man dressed in loose pants, a stained shirt, a red turban, and muddy shoes speaks up when he notices that a woman in black pants, coat, and tie hasn’t received her share. After people finish, they pick up their plates and glasses and put them inside a container of water. No payment is needed, regardless of religion, nationality, gender, or age. The meal is free—free for everyone.

COLOMBO, SRI LANKA Locals are pictured on a train at the Colombo Fort railway station platform. This train station, at the heart of the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s capital, is constantly filled with locals and tourists alike. Trains are the most common form of transportation in the country, and provide the most scenic views.

by STELLA LEVANTESI

Sri Lanka Amid Crowded Chaos and Serene Bliss by STELLA LEVANTESI

arrived in Sri Lanka on a sunny summer morning. The drastic change in climate from Rome’s cold winter made the temperature in Sri Lanka feel all the hotter. After a short bus ride, I was thrown into the bustle of Colombo. Tuk tuks (three-wheeled taxis) zipped by me, car horns blared, and food vendors shouted on either side of the street. My first train ride was the same—hilariously chaotic. In Sri Lanka, trains are mostly used by locals. They are slow but incredibly cheap and offer some of the most beautiful views of the country’s landscapes. Seating is first come, first served, and if you’re lucky enough to get a seat, you’ll likely end up sharing it. Otherwise, it’s a struggle to remain standing amidst 50 other people while the train sways left and right.

You also have to make space for the food vendors who run up and down the train’s aisle selling wadi wadi, or assorted snacks like lentil patties or pineapples. If you think this sounds intolerable, you shouldn’t go anywhere near Sri Lankan busses. They fly down narrow, winding mountain roads at 80 miles per hour, while cars and tuk tuks consistently overtake each other competitively. It will be the fastest and bumpiest ride of your life, and you’ll likely fear for your survival. But Sri Lanka is much more than chaotic roads and turbulent rides. You’ll never be without the company of little monkeys, who are always running around the ancient Buddhist temples and climbing trees. You can ride a jeep through Minneriya National Park, where the elephants look majestic

in their natural habitat. The natural wonders provide a serenity that serves as a counterbalance to the hectic bustle of the cities. If you decide to embark on the climb to see Sigiriya from Pidurangala Rock, be sure to bring loads of water. It’s a long and steep climb, but it’s worth every drop of sweat because the view at the top is breathtaking. In Ella, a town surrounded by green mountains and lush tea plantations, you get to feel chilly again—a refreshing feeling if you’ve ever experienced a Sri Lankan summer. And you get to taste the most delicious tea. It’s easy to ramble on about Sri Lanka—the taste of its curry rice, the kindness of its locals, the winding tuk tuk rides, and the silence of the mountains.

THE ROAD W

by RAEVA SAYED

LESS TRAVELED

e were late. Again. As we stepped out of the building and into our vehicle, clad with diplomatic plates, my sisters and I were greeted by the biting, minus 40 degree weather of Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia. Forty-below may already sound cold, but its reality is even more dramatic than it sounds. It’s the kind of cold that could break your eyelashes. The kind of cold that numbs your senses, rendering you unable to smell. The kind of cold that freezes a river, nearly 50 feet under the surface. During the winter, the Tuul River served as a bridge from my apartment building—constructed in the early 1900s during the Russian occupation of Mongolia— to my newly constructed school. Though it should not have taken more than ten minutes to get to school, we had to leave an hour early to dodge the horrendous traffic. It seemed as if people drove their cars with a nomadic mentality, thinking that cars could graze past each other in close proximity like herds of feral horses.

This particular morning, my driver decided to use the river as a road. Tires spinning under the chassis, I could feel my heart rate accelerate each time we veered onto the ice. I looked to the right where a dilapidated, pathetic excuse for a bridge stood. Though it had been in construction for three years, I had never seen anyone work on it. Only parts of it stood as lonely representations of the hope that had crept into Mongolian hearts when the government promised development. Still, with the deeply ingrained mentality of nomadic resilience, the country trudges forward. I squinted, focusing on a slab of cement that I hadn’t noticed before. I couldn’t remember where it came from. There was no way the construction crews had used the tilted crane, which was on the verge of breaking down. The rusty edges of the abandoned machinery suggested they hadn’t seen their operators in months, or maybe years. The construction of this bridge meant more than its potential to ease my morning commute. It would essentially

connect the city to its suburbs. The bridge could serve as an infrastructural expansion. Sadly, that promise was broken, as no bridge was constructed during my four years in Ulaanbaatar. Yet the absence of the bridge gave me the opportunity to sit in a 6,000 pound car over frozen water. It was an unnerving experience that only got easier as time ticked on. As I turned my attention back to the river ahead, I realized we had reached the end, safe and sound. In that moment, it seemed that I began to trust the Tuul River more than the prospect of the completed bridge. I understood the deep-rooted trust Mongolians put into their homeland—more trust than they place in the prospect of any man-made object. I returned to Mongolia for a short trip three years later. During my drive into the city, I saw the bridge. To my disbelief, it was finally complete. As I glanced out of my window on that freezing Saturday afternoon, a beat-up sedan came into sight, spinning on the Tuul River as young children giggled in amusement.

An Unexpected

OASIS by JACK DAVIDSON

The roads between Marrakech and the Sahara Desert in Morocco are beyond treacherous. Single lanes winding wildly up and down sheer mountain sides are packed with too many cars, trucks, and donkeys. Luckily, our car was small enough to slip by the obstacles. We drove, white-knuckled, for hours through the mazes of the Atlas Mountains. When we finally approached the other side of the Atlas Range, a speck of green appeared in the distance, shining like an emerald in the dull orange desert. As we neared, the oasis became more and more vivid. The DadĂ¨s River, lined with palm trees and fields of green, welcomed us to the valley and signaled an end to our peril. The haven stood true to its name, providing a sanctuary and a much needed sense of comfort. Immediately after arriving to our auberge, we gulped tea and devoured snacks. Our room did not have air-conditioning, but the mud stucco walls of the building naturally cooled the interior, providing relief from the hot African sun. Feeling rejuvenated after the drive, we stepped out and explored the oasis.

Looking across the valley, green marks the path of the DadĂ¨s River, which provides much needed water to the village

The French word auberge refers to a small inn with fewer than 10 rooms.

The temperature dramatically dropped after descending down to the agriculutral plots.

THE NIGHT TOURIST

by JENNY LEVINE

hen I travel with friends or family, they are usually ready to head to bed after a stop at a museum and a bite to eat. That’s not how I like to explore. I’m out of my Airbnb by 9 a.m., ready to see every nook of the city during the day. I only return once the sun is about to set, just in time to take a quick nap before heading out again for an even longer night.

I found the perfect balance on my last trip to Tel Aviv. I managed my own solo walking tour of old neighborhoods like Neve Tzedek and Florentin during the day, while my Tel Avivan friends went to work or school. At night, though, it was their time to show me the ‘real’ Tel Aviv. Israelis go out often and avoid repeating the previous night’s antics. Every night is a new experience. Considering the city’s reputation as “non-stop” and a “top gay destination,” the options for nighttime adventures are practically endless. My friend—who I call “The Official Tour Guide of Tel Aviv” because of his penchant for hosting couchsurfers—ushered me into his beachside apartment. Two curly-haired girls, conversing in English, poured alcoholic concoctions into Oktoberfest mugs. Surprised by the presence of my native language, I choked out an introduction. My friend and guide had gathered a motley group of young Americans to experience his version Tel Aviv, the Tel Aviv with neon signs in three different languages and a national drink that glows like radioactive waste in children’s cartoons (it’s called Tubi 60, by the way). Our destination was Radio EPGB. This bar draws crowds from the music and fashion scene around Israel, but is surprisingly casual. No one dons heels or body-hugging dresses. A nice pair of boots and jeans will suffice. As we waited in line, my friend turned to me and told me to put away my ID. He explained that though I may be of legal drinking age, it doesn’t mean that bars will

relish the idea of letting me in. The legal drinking age in Israel is 18, but most bars and clubs won’t let you in unless you are at least 24. This seemed contradictory to me in a place like Israel, where being young is idealized in street art and fashion. My friend clarified my confusion telling me that “they don’t want military kids in there.” Israelis have to serve in the Israel Defence Forces for a mandatory two to three years, usually in their late teens and early twenties. According to my friend, clubs in Tel Aviv don’t want to be associated with the youthfulness of the mandatory military service. True to his reputation as guide, my friend managed to talk the bouncer into letting me in despite my youthful appearance. The rest of the night was filled with electronic music and the mysteriously-colored Tubi 60 shots in a stifling underground bar. But as the humming of cicadas filled the air and a rosy haze set in, signalling the start to another scorching day, my gang of conniving clubbers headed home. Before we called it a night, though, we stopped for a celebratory slice of pizza. I looked at the group of three American transplants and one mischievous Israeli all munching in drunken bliss on our cheesy meal. Nightlife in Israel may be a whole different beast compared to New York, but regardless of ambiance or age requirements, the perfect night always ends with a group of people you truly care about and a greasy slice.

SYDNEY: PORT OF CONNECTION by KRISTINA HAYHURST

ight poured through the small opening between the curtains, illuminating a sliver of my small hotel room and slowly coaxing my eyelids awake. It was my first morning out of the hospital, and the darkened room was a welcome change from the stark white walls that had surrounded my bed for the past seven days. I lay silent for a few moments before the curtains were brushed aside, bouncing the warm Australian sunshine from dresser to bed to carpet, gently filling the whole space with light. The doors, once hidden by curtains, slid open, and my mom walked in with a bright smile on her face and a cup of coffee in each hand. Three days before and with only five hours notice, she had bought a ticket from Minnesota to Sydney and flew halfway around the world to be by my side. As she stepped through the sliding doors, seaside smells slipped in behind her. We were staying in a hotel on Sydney Harbor, and right outside our door were two chairs, a small walkway, and a view of turquoise waters lapping up against Circular Quay. My mom climbed into bed next to me, handed me a coffee, and told me it was time to go for a walk. After surgery, movement was difficult, and yesterdayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s taxi

ride from the hospital had shaken my swollen stomach plenty. Something about the taste of the coffee and the sound of silver gulls outside, though, sparked resiliency. As we walked, the expansive port opened up to us. We passed street performers conducting their acts against the backdrop of the Opera Houseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a woman fit herself into a three by three foot box, while dancers traversed the boardwalk to the beat of the city. After about fifteen minutes, I found it increasingly difficult to breathe, so we sat on an olive green bench across from the Museum of Contemporary Art, watching the waves. Small ripples shifted to arching curves as yellow-green water taxis and towering cruise liners sailed past. Ferries carried people across thirty-seven kilometers of harbour, to historical islands, coastal beaches, and twenty-seven other wharves. As we sat there, a tour guide passed by, telling a group of tourists that nearly fifteen million people cross the Sydney harbour by ferry every year. We made our way back to the hotel room shortly after, and repeated the same walk each morning until my mom left. With each day I regained more strength, and we walked further

and further together, arm in arm. During these moments I began to recognize how the struggle through painful and isolating moments eventually gives way to the strongest connections. Later that semester, I had recovered enough to take on the harbour bridge climb. Looking down from the top of the arch, I thought about walking across the boardwalk every morning with my mom and wondered what she must be doing now, ten thousand miles away. Before her visit, this thought would have disheartened me, as traveling often signifies a break in my communication with the people I love. In that moment, though, the wharf signified something different. Across the boardwalk were memories of us walking together, musing over the potential destinations the port offered us; while I was limited in my movement, I was not restrained from opportunity. From that harbour I could join the fifteen million nameless faces that once seemed so unfamiliar on a ferry ride to elsewhere. Despite all of the difference trying to pull us apart, atop the bridge, all I could see were people coming together.

NEW ZEALAND by JOEY SOLOMON

1. Hidden directions, on the road. 2. A snippet of the moon above the New Zealand rainforest. 3. Looking down the meandering trail of ice that rapidly melts off the Franz Josef Glacier.

2 1 3

AUSTRALIA by ANNA LETSON

The Land Down Under

Tide pools in the Royal National Park, visible only at low tide.

The top of Wentworth Falls in the Blue Mountains.

Dunes at Long Reef Beach in the Northern Beaches.

Smooth-bark eucalyptus trees stand out among the other trees in the Blue Mountains.

View of the New South Wales coast from the Figure 8 Pool in the Royal National Park.

A view of a gorge in the Blue Mountains.

ELLA, SRI LANKA

by STELLA LEVANTESI

Editorsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Picks

by TAE SON

MAASAI MARA, KENYA

From train cars in Sri Lanka to the savannah wilderness of Maasai Mara, Kenya, each issue of Baedeker is left with photographs that are too noteworthy to miss.