Baedeker Spring 2016 by Baedeker Travel Magazine

BAEDEKER T R AVE L M A G A Z I N E SPRING 2016

Editor’s Letter

ith guides in print for almost 150 years, Verlag Karl Baedeker published edition after edition of handy pocket books for some of the most popular destinations in the world. The work never really came to an end, as evidenced by the poem at right that begins the 12th-edition handbook for Northern Italy by beseeching readers to draw attenBaedeker’s Northern Italy Karl Baedeker tion to any errors so that 12th Remodelled Edition, 1903 they may be corrected “in any part or all.” In this magazine, you will see that we ally appealing publications on campus. have stuck to the same guiding principle In particular, we have been working of perpetual improvement. This semes- to strengthen our online presence. To ter, we continued to expand our team in better to display the wealth of great order to further our goal of displaying content that our submitters provide, we the best travel experiences of our fellow moved our website back over to WordNYU students in one of the mosts visu- Press and began building a team dedi-

cated to our digital presence. Check out the link below, and please enjoy what you find in these pages.

Scott Mullen

SCOTT MULLEN | editor in chief

CHRISTINA WANG | art director

LIZZY TEPLUKHIN | treasurer

KARI SONDE | managing editor

SAM SOON | photo editor

ANA LOPES | web editor

ANNA FERKINGSTAD | managing editor

CARLY SMITH | social media editor

ZOYA TO | illustrator

WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH | secretary

africa editors DHIKA HIMAWAN ROSHANI MOORJANI

middle east & oceania editors DAKSHAYANI SHANKAR MERILYN CHANG

north america editors CELINE SIDANI JACK DAVIDSON

layout team CHEYENNE KLEINBERG HANNAH GARCIA JACK DAVIDSON LAURA BURKE

latin america editors JENNA ELLIS SEBASTIAN MURIEL

asia editors HEATHER SCHINDLER LUCY HWANG

europe editors LILY MCMAHON SARAH PETERS

web team ETHAN SAPIENZA MATHILDE VAN TULDER

nyubaedeker@gmail.com | nyubaedeker.wordpress.com

LATIN AMERICA Columbia: Journal Entries............. 3-4

Views from the Atlas Mountains...... 17

Snapshot: Taganga, Columbia....... 5-6

MIDDLE EAST As the Fog Lifts............................... 18

by Mackenzie Leighton

The Howler Monkeys and Me........... 7 by Willa Tellekson-Flash

TABLE OF CONTENTS

NORTH AMERICA Shooting from Above....................... 8 by Michael Kilcourse

by Sulleyman Azhari

by Shervin Abdolhamidi

EUROPE Iceland...................................... 19-20 by Nate Palmer

Barcelona....................................... 21 by Shirley Lu

Hidden Eats in a Hidden City....... 9-10

Street Sounds and Censorship........ 22

Snapshot: Newfoundland, Canada...................................... 11-12

Snapshot: Venice, Italy............... 23-24

by Anna Ferkingstad

by Marilyn Lamanna

Newfoundland, Canada............ 13-14

by Jack Bandarenko

by Sera Barbieri

Books in Bloomsbury...................... 25 by Lily McMahon

by Marilyn Lamanna

AFRICA The Slums of Agbogloshie........ 15-16 by William Martin

ASIA Jiufen, Taiwan................................. 26 by Jenna Ellis

The Robot Restaurant................ 27-28 by Ethan Sapienza

DEPARTURE ................................. 29 by Editorial Staff

19 9

25 21 17

22 27

Handlettering on pages 8 and 18 by ANNA FERKINGSTAD (cover) In the slum of Agbogbloshie, Awal Mohammed glances at his cellphone to read a message from his wife. photo by WILLIAM MARTIN

by MACKENZIE LEIGHTON

COLUMBIA

a series of journal entries from experiences along the coast CARTAGENA, COLOMBIA October 4th, 2015 We just arrived in Cartagena, Colombia, this afternoon. As the plane landed, I was transfixed by the landscape. There were green chains of land in between large oceans, thousands of vibrantly colored shipping containers on boat decks, and miles of coastline bordering the Caribbean sea with a city smack dab in the middle. The landscape changed so quickly.

CARTAGENA TO TAGANGA October 6th, 2015 Yesterday, we rode bicycles through Cartagena. The streets were narrow and the architecture was old and charming. We reached a beach and the water was warmer than any other ocean I have ever been in. We’re driving through some mountains now and there are cacti everywhere.

TAGANGA, COLOMBIA October 6th, 2015 Taganga is such a hidden wonder. The hills that surround the main cove are very undeveloped and hopefully it stays that way. If people find out about this place, it’s going to become a major tourist destination and it won’t be the same. We watched one of the most beautiful sunsets right over the Caribbean sea. It is so hot here! I’ve never been this sticky or sweaty in my entire life.

TAYRONA NATIONAL PARK October 7th, 2015 In Tayrona, cacti grow from the soil that sits on boulders. It thunders at dusk. People set up their multicolored tents in rows on hard sand and grass, but we sleep in hammocks for 20,000 pesos a night, (roughly the equivalent of $7 USD.) I can’t get lunch in New York City for $7 USD. I’m watching men play soccer and people have set up lawn chairs to see them kick up traces of earth. There is an old Colombian man with leathery skin walking around in a tiny speedo that says “Portugal” on the butt. He is wearing crocs. It just started to rain. Lightning flashed in between the palm leaves. The men playing soccer are not phased by this and they keep playing, but everyone else has frantically grabbed their bags and run for shelter. The lizards we saw in the jungle have probably buried themselves in the leaves and the birds who were calling to each other in morning shrieks, no doubt have found new perches. For dinner, we ate peanut butter on bread and chocolate cookies. It started to rain very hard and the sand turned to mud. Lightning turned the sky over the ocean purple. We didn’t wear any shoes, and after seeing a guy shine his iPhone light on a toad sitting still near our hammocks, I was worried I would step on one in the dark, barefoot.

TAGANGA, COLUMBIA

Taganga is a small fishing village on the Caribbean coast of Columbia. The dusty ground scatters bright sunlight across the charming streets.

by MACKENZIE LEIGHTON

The howler monkeys and me: climbing to a Costa Rican sunrise by WILLA TELLEKSON-FLASH

y Duane Reade flashlight felt a little bit out of place in the jungle. I shone it directly at the ground in front of me, careful not to trip on a rock or fallen palm branch as I took on the leafy path. At five o’clock in the morning, there was sleep in my eyes, but the monkeys had woken up. Howler monkeys, smaller than domestic cats made noises that would challenge a gorilla. I turned to look at my friends just behind me, eyebrow raised—“Are you sure those aren’t huge apes?” We all laughed nervously, half perplexed by the sounds of our new environment and half in awe of the sunrise we were about to see. This wasn’t a long or challenging hike. You wouldn’t be able to find it in a guidebook. Rather, it was just a five-minute jaunt up a (very) steep hill located on the property of the yoga retreat center we were staying at. But when we left our jungle huts and headed towards the highest point on the property, I felt the same excitement that I feel when I conquer peaks thousands of feet above sea level. We kept trekking, stopping only briefly when frogs jumped through our path. Out of breath, we came across two hammocks—while it was tempting to stop there and rest (or go back to sleep), the small tower in a clearing ahead beckoned us to continue. And when we arrived at

our actual destination, all I could do was laugh. Somewhat wary of heights, I couldn’t imagine trusting this rickety platform to support me thirty feet off of the ground. I put my flashlight in my sports bra and reached for the first rung of the ladder. It shook. Comforting. When I reached the platform and crawled out on all fours towards the center, I chose to ignore the holes between the worn boards. This is definitely stable enough for the three of us, I reassured myself. I took a deep breath as I turned to face west and stared towards the horizon. I grew up travelling with parents who referred to the guidebooks as the bible, checking off boxes of museums and cathedrals, walks in famous parks, and meals at “local-picks” restaurants. For the first time, I was sitting somewhere that would never see a crowd. The sun began to peak up above the Pacific Ocean, the sky blushing watermelon red. The howler monkeys continued to yell. I’m not entirely sure whether they were telling us to get out of their territory or congratulating us for waking up to see the sunrise. The sun rose higher in the sky, turning the sky from watermelon to pink lemonade, illuminating the luscious treetops around us. And we just sat. No need to see any monuments or ruins. The palm trees and howler monkeys were enough.

by MILES KILCOURSE

an exploration of aerial photography

KE’ANAE PENINSULA, HAWAII (136 FT) While on the drive to Hana, we stopped at the Ke’anae Peninsula to photograph a village that primarily grows taro, a starch crop.

BEAR MOUNTAIN, NEW YORK (230 FT) This was taken about an hour outside of New York City just as the sun was rising.

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS (98 FT) At Charles River Esplanade, a park in the Back Bay, people sailed as the sun arched over MIT.

MONTREAL: hidden eats in a hidden city by ANNA FERKINGSTAD

city of opposites, Montreal is wedged between modernity and European tradition. Wandering across the cobblestone streets of Old Town, you notice the strong contrast to the sleek buildings of the industrialized downtown sector. To you, the light pink and neon blue colored houses of the Quartier Latin feel out of place. They contrast the surrounding brown and mundane apartment complexes. By not limiting itself to one identity, Montreal has created an identity all its own. Walking into a restaurant or store, the customs and language remind you of Paris. French culinary traditions are a prominent influence on many of the menus. But like each new cafe you stumble into, you’ll find something new and seemingly undiscovered, around every corner. Montreal can be elusive, even secretive. To feel like a local, you skip the clubbing that the city is notorious for and spend your travel budget instead on dining. Dine late into the evening, picking a new restaurant each night you are there. Vary the meals. Eat a big breakfast one day and an endless dinner the next. New and unheard of creations appear on menus almost as frequently as French classics. Straddling tradition and modern ingenuity, it’s as if the restaurant culture of Montreal stands as a metaphor for the city as a whole. Founded in 1642, Montreal is now the largest city in the

Quebec Province and the second largest city in Canada behind the nearby Toronto. Unlike many other regions in Quebec, the majority of people in Montreal speak English. French, the official language, is found on signs, menus and in television broadcasts. But you can hear American music floating from taxicab windows; you might even notice that the shelves of bookstores are full of titles written in both French and English. Most restaurants provide English translations of their menus but when they don’t, the servers are happy to explain. You walk into Manitoba, a restaurant created by Elisabeth Cardin and Simon Cantin that is known for its ‘New Canadian’ cuisine, and are unsure which language to greet the hostess. It’s about 8 P.M. on your first night in the city and the streets are quiet. Almost too quiet—a bit eerie even. As if to mimic the atmosphere of the surrounding Oest Montreal neighborhood, Manitoba feels too calm for a Saturday night. Despite being named 2014 restaurant of the year by Eater Montreal, Manitoba is nearly impossible to spot from the sidewalk. You cautiously approach the otherwise unmarked wooden door to discover that wild mushroom soup and venison steak beckon from the other side. You spot the location only after spending 15 minutes weaving through streets, your face aglow from the maps application on your iPhone.

The hostess takes a quick look at your hesitant expression and skips the French entirely. “How many?” She asks. The freezing temperatures and high winds whine outside, but the rumble of pots and pans from the open kitchen are the backdrop to your conversation. As the waiter approaches, you feel like the stillness of the candle lit space might be shortlived. As if the magic of your “secret” restaurant find might be revealed at any moment and it will be only seconds before the place is overflowing. The New Yorker in you laughs at this idea. But for some reason, it never happens. Hours and courses slip by. The dinner “rush” passes and the restaurant doesn’t get any louder. It doesn’t get any more crowded. The pace remains unchanged. There is space to move peacefully between tables and you can walk from your chair to the bathroom without once uttering ‘excusez-moi.’ For anyone who lives in a major metropolitan area, this can be hard to believe. A Sunday brunch at the one of the most well known breakfast stops on Rue Saint-Laurent, L’Avenue, with no wait to be seated? A 7:00 P.M. weekend dinner at chef Chuck Hughes’ classic seafood stop, Gardé Manger, in Old Town with little to no stress? Taking a seat at the well-established Liverpool House in the Little Burgundy neighborhood, you admire the ease the restaurant exudes. Maybe it’s the homey, cottage-y décor or the abundant wine list that relaxes you. But admiring the chalkboard menu, you think again that this feels too easy. At the Liverpool House, after all, you’re in the presence of royalty. A counterpart to the infamous Joe Beef, the Liverpool House is run by two of the most famous chefs in Eastern Canada: David McMillan and Frédéric Morin. The menu is gluttonous but the aura isn’t pompous. Servers and diners move synchronously, almost effortlessly. The volume of the restaurant remains hushed as you bite eagerly into a slice of crispy bread topped with foie gras.

These are the inherent contradictions of Montreal. You are told it’s a city of partying, but it’s also a city where neighborhoods fall quiet upon nightfall. Even on a weekend, chances are you won’t just stumble upon new favorite eatery. It is a city of art and exploration but if you are there only briefly, the culture feels hidden. You must seek out places. Plan your outings and make sure to strategically research and note locations on a map as you go. Unless you figure out exactly where to look, the city can be isolating. It is easy to succumb to the uneasy divide between the new and the old. Looking at an off-white paper menu, you are unsure whether to order a classic steak frites or take a risk and try the lobster poutine. But that’s also the beauty of this “European” city. Argue all you want about whether your espresso at Café Sfouf is any better than the coffee you can get in Seattle. Question, I dare you, if the wine options are more expansive or of higher quality than what you might find in Paris. You can even pick a fight over whether the beer at Bistro-Brasserie Les Soeurs Grises is of higher quality than what you can find at a microbrewery in Portland. But perhaps, what makes eating in Montreal so unique (and so notorious in food publications and television shows) is not the obvious. What if, you begin to think, the fame isn’t just derived from the quality of the food? (Although, there is something to be said about that to.) After your short week spent eating and drinking your way through the city, you have a hard time returning to your own quiet and empty kitchen. The ease and the comfort of the city have left you in a daze. Thinking back on your afternoon spent navigating the Jean-Tallon Public Market, you realize what made dining in Montreal distinct. It is all in the way they eat.

(1) A steaming cup black coffee at Café Souf in the Gay Village. (2) Afternoon shadows on facades in the Quartier Latin. (3) Two helpings of poutine at La Banquise. (4) A bright blue spire juts out on a corner in the Quartier Latin. (5) Café Differenace in the Ville Marie neighborhood.

NEWFOUNDLAND, CANADA Walking through the town during the winter months requires navigating thorugh snow and slush. However, rows of vibrantly colors row houses decorate and brighten the streets.

by MARILYN LAMANNA

Newfoundland, Canada by MARILYN LAMANNA

ast winter, my dad received a job offer that took him all the way from our home in Chicago, to Newfoundland, Canada for the season. I spent a few days exploring the quaint town of St. Johnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s, an area that sits on a beautiful hillside overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. With all of its colorful row houses, snowy hills, and foggy cliffs, the town stole my heart. Although I only had a few days to take it all in, I am appreciative that I could experience the charming downtown culture as well as the picturesque views for a short while. Signal Hill is a lookout point that offers incredibly breathtaking views of the ocean and surrounding mountains. My mom and I ventured up in the snowy weather to take in the scenery; even

though the wind threatened to knock us over and the fog obstructed part of the view, I would not have changed it for the world. The cool, white mist and murky fog that appeared in all my photographs turned this land into a dreamlike place, complete with a snowy blanket as far as the eye could see. It was a snow loverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s paradise. Not only was Signal Hill scenic, but it is also one of the most eastern points in North America, I highly recommend visiting the hillside town at any time of year, as it embodies different scenery with each changing season. The local shops provided community and the row house we stayed at offered the most peaceful, old-fashioned getaway.

by WILLIAM MARTIN

AGBOGBLOSHIE, GHANA

THE SLUMS OF

The

wal Mohammed, a migrant worker in his early Story of Awal 20s, moved from rural Northern Ghana to Accra, the capital city of Ghana, to find work. Very few jobs are available in the agricultural north of Ghana, so many migrate south to collect trash in the slums of Agbogbloshie in Accra. Over 100,000 migrants have settled illegally in the city on government owned land. Now, Awal leads a group of boys in the hazardous occupation of burning electronic waste in Agbogbloshie. While the job poses extreme health risks, it is often the only available option for unskilled migrant workers. According to a study conducted by the Ghana Health Studies, Hunter College in New York and GreenAdvocacy. org in 2009-2012, seven different highly toxic metals, including iron, exist in the blood and urine of people living in the area Agbogbloshie. Each boy who works burning the waste earns less than $20 USD a month.

PART ONE

Due to a series of actions taken by the Accra Metropolitan Assembly (AMA), Awal recently lost the home he built by hand. It began in 2011, when the AMA and the Slum Union of Ghana agreed to clear 30 meters from the shoulders of the waterways near the slum. This decision allowed recent flooding to demolish a perimeter of 100-150 meters. In June of 2015, over 20,000 people in the Agbogloshie slum lost their homes when the AMA began again to destroy buildings in their efforts to dredge the waterways. The city is affected by massive floods each rainy season, but Awal and other evicted residents began to protest the actions taken by the AMA. Eventually, the Ghanaian riot control had to disperse protesters with rubber bullets and tear gas. Despite their efforts, however, the displaced Ghanaians continued to riot. Awal lit fires to help block the riot control units. Without a home or a job, Awal and his wife Sadaa, were forced to migrate back to their hometown in the north of Ghana. Police did not allow buses to enter the depots in the slum, leaving each family

(left) Awal Mohammed burns electronic waste to extract precious metals. (upper right) Awal reunites with his five year old son after one year apart. Haruna lives with Awal’s parents in Tamale. He attends school next door and he often has to go to the hospital for poor health. (lower right) Awal talks to a young girl who sells water to va electronic waste workers.

and resident responsible for finding their own transportation out of the area. Taking advantage of the mass migration, middleman began to exacerbate the prices of tickets needed for travel. When Awal and Sadaa got on the bus to Tamale, it departed 12 hours later than expected. Bus voyages were becoming increasingly dangeous at night because of road thieves and road conditions but in time, Awal and Sadaa were able to return home safely to Awal’s family home. There, after more than a year apart, Awal and Sadaa were reunited with their son, Haruna. However, a week after migrating to Tamale, Awal returned back to Agbogbloshie to build a new shelter and try to find work again. In the first week of the past February, Awal called me. I asked him how he and his family were doing and he told me that although they are fine, he is still sleeping outdoors, unprotected from mosquitos. He still burns electronic waste for money.

PART TWO

Behind the Camera

gbogbloshie was the most difficult project I have worked on but the experience translated to significant personal growth. Over the course of six weeks, I grew close to Awal and his family in the Agbogbloshie slum of Accra, Ghana. As he opened up to me about his life, I did the same with him. We laughed over our language barrier and cultural differences. And when there was a concerning situation, Awal was quick to help and protect me. Many in the Agbogbloshie community believe that no one has the right to photograph them—they feel that too many photographers have made money off of their despair. Awal helped me explain to his neighbors that I was not there to profit off my photographs but instead document the lives and struggles of those in the slums. When a riot broke out in the community after the government demolished homes in the area, I found

myself in the middle of the action. Rubber bullets from riot control police flew at us, while the suffocating sting of tear gas filled our noses. Thinking I was taking advantage of the situation, a group of protesters shoved me to the ground and mugged me. But Awal explained to the opposing group what I was doing: capturing the injustices that had been committed against them. Suddenly, they joined with us and the group formed a protective tunnel around me. Many of the community members stood in front of my camera, wanting their actions to be recorded. At that moment, I felt more like a documentary photographer than I ever had before. Here was a group of people wanting to be heard, and my camera gave them a voice. Documentary photography should never be one-sided with the photographer separated from their subject’s reality through a viewfinder. It is necessary to not only give back to the people we are documenting, but to also open yourself to the struggle and pain of those you are advocating for.

n Moroccoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Atlas Mountains, the scenery is stunning. Moroccan rugs hang in the glistening African sun; the sound of water resonates along the riverâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s rocks. Motorcycles on beaten roads are lost into vanishing points while the colors of red clay and juniper green stretch as far as the eye can see. Shooting in film, there is always the prickling fear that all your captured memories will eventually turn out as nothing but a blank negative. But returning to my negatives from the roll I shot in the Atlas Mountains, I began to think about how it is better to sometimes preserve our memories in fear of the imaginary.

Views from the Atlas Mountains by SULEYMAN AZHARI

he country of Iran is a vast and diverse land that comprises of an array of beautiful, historic cities and natural wonders. Out of all the country’s splendors, Masouleh—a small, tranquil village nestled in the slopes of the Alborz Mountains— is truly an epitome of Iranian beauty. With a picturesque landscape and hospitable people, Masouleh is a quintessential tourist destination that may soon be a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Whether you are interested in natural hikes, shopping, or a relaxing vacation in the countryside without losing the luxuries of modern life, this city can meet your needs. The lush rolling hills and mountainous landscape is ideal for a very enjoyable hike while the traditional bazaar of Masouleh is a beacon for those interested in craftwork and Persian sweets. Masouleh is in the province of Gilan. Situated in the Alborz mountain range and close to the Caspian Sea, the city is blessed with an abundant annual rainfall. This in turn, has spawned dense vegetation and roaring rivers in the area. The most predominant climatic feature of the village is the omnipresent fog, which comes and goes like a fickle companion, while the rushing river is an ever familiar sound that resonates across the village. The most prominent asset of this quaint village is its pristine nature. The

lush natural scenery of Masouleh would lure anyone with the slightest inclination to the outdoors. As the fog momentarily lifts, you will gaze upon a mystical sight: a series of cottages built on a slope, surrounded by verdant hills, engulfed in a blanket of swirling clouds. If you are looking for peace and serenity, then this tranquil and placid city will satisfy the search. One of the best things to do there is to simply lay back, take in the lovely view and listen to the soothing sound of flowing water drifting from a nearby river. If you are a more active nature lover, then you can indulge in the many scenic hiking trails in the vicinity. Over the course of your hike, you will traverse through forests, creeks, and fog. Occasionally, if you are lucky, the fog will rise and treat you to the breathtaking and mesmerizing views that can be seen along the hike’s great vistas. Gazing at Mousuleh as the fog lifts is a surreal sight, like something out of a fairytale. The ciy of Masouleh is a marvel in its own right. The houses are built on a steep slope, such that each house’s courtyard is another house’s rooftop. As you stroll through the alleys of the city, you are literally walking over the roofs and courtyards of the houses. In between these houses is a maze of narrow, meandering steps that lead to the upper levels of the village. Given that these old

houses are mostly made out of clay and wood, it is truly amazing that the roofs can also serve as walkways. Moreover, they are constantly exposed to the wear and tear of the weather such as deluges of rain and heaps of snow. Which makes Masouleh’s resilience an architectural marvel. Unlike many small historical cities, Masouleh offers options for lodging and accommodations. If you wish to get in touch with the traditional lifestyles of the city, there are rooms that you can lease from the locals. The people of Masouleh are very hospitable, friendly, and kind-hearted. As you wander through the city and interact with the locals, you are sure to find them helpful and easy to get along with. Nowadays, Masouleh is no longer the secluded city it once was. Every holiday, hordes of people go there to celebrate. Just like all historical tourist locations, Masouleh is prone to the effects of tourism. Of course, alterations due to the flocking of crowds of people to a previously isolated city are imminent. The fact of the matter is that places like Masouleh are the jewels of a country. It is of utmost importance that we as visitors strive to preserve the cultural and architectural thread of the city.

by SHERVIN ABDOLHAMIDI

Iceland photos by NATE PALMER

(1) Volcanic rocks layer the beach, making the sand appear black.2) Seljalandsfoss Waterfall roars against strong Icelands winds. (3) Two islands sit just off the shore of Iceland’s coast. (4) A stream runs towards the Atlantic Ocean from the glacier Mýrdalsjökull. (5) A building sits alone just west of the town of Vik. (6) A cliff overhangs Iceland’s shore.

STREET SOUNDS AND SENSORSHIP

Prague, Czech Republic

he city of Prague—given its dense cultural history and recent introduction of a democratic political structure— has developed a widely diverse music scene, consisting of equal parts classical/ folk music and international mainstream pop. Whether you are a native to the city or a fanny-pack-toting tourist, this symbiosis of music genres makes for a fun walk through Prague’s heavily-trafficked historical areas, where buskers can serenade your walk over the Charles Bridge or your cappuccino-break in Old Town Square. Styles range from a lone guitar player, violinists, jazz bands, or a person wearing an Inspector Gadget-looking contraption that can play the recorder, kazoo, tambourine, trumpet, and guitar at the same time. Combinations are endless and the surprises are plenty. However, this privilege did not come without a bit of controversy. Roughly three years ago, an ordinance was implemented to limit the locations of “street art productions” to certain places determined by the Prague City Assembly. Playgrounds, cemeteries, hospitals, and public transport stops are among the areas where busking is prohibited. A Busker’s Ethical Code was also established, which outlines a few general

guidelines for legal busking in the city. Some of these rules include, but are not limited to: “keep sufficient distance from other musicians”, “do not perform on roads”, “play only acoustically”, “do not stay in one place for more than one hour”, and so on. Although they are generally fair rules that allow performers to take full advantage of the attractive locations throughout the city, they put a lot of pressure on the musicians to be merely background music. Law enforcement often gives performers a hard time for staying in one place for too long or simply being too loud. Arguments ensueand expletives fly, resulting in fines for the buskers. Was busking a much more assertive practice before the ordinance? Did musicians cause enough of a disturbance in the city to warrant a restriction-laden policy? Busking is essential to the cultural environment of the city. It soundtracks the lives of thousands of people looking to immerse themselves in all that Prague has to offer, a large chunk of which is its charmingly eclectic music scene. Let’s hope these policies do not discourage performers from doing what they love.

by JACK BANDARENKO

CITY GUIDE:

BARCELONA

icasso is world famous for his abstract Cubism artwork, but here in the place he grew up, people seem to talk more about another great artist—Gaudi. Thanks to Gaudi, Barcelona possesses some of the most stunning tourist attractions. This city taught me how to appreciate art, as well as the ambition and dedication behind it. Something I absolutely love about Barcelona is the chamfered corner design (buildings at intersections have a 45-degree oblique cut). This allows an open view of these narrow streets, more space for parking at the intersection, and a better view for right-turning-cars. Most importantly, this design enables a larger pedestrian zone for people to shop or even dine at the outdoor corner space. Having walked around the city for five days, here are my top to do’s:

LA SAGRADA FAMILIA The La Sagrada Familia is the most stunning church built in the modern era, even though it won’t actually be completed until 2016. It incorporates Gaudi’s designs using inspiration from nature: pillars and ceilings resembling tree branches, curving organically instead of straight up. Some call it a bible

by SHIRLEY LU

of stone, as this church is carved with scenes from the Bible. The color and light that comes through the stained glass evokes a peaceful and bright atmosphere for praying. It is unreasonable to line up and buy tickets because it’s easy to purchase tickets ahead of time online using a smartphone. You need to choose a time slot for entrance— book at least 2 days ahead for a good slot. Once confirmed, save the confirmation on your phone to show the guard at the entrance.

CASA BATLLO Fascinating design. Love the story: this is a residential apartment owned by Josep Batlló who gave Gaudi the complete freedom to create something extraordinary. We need more people like Batlló.

LES RAMBLES Wide modern street with all the big brand names and a hidden food market. I suggest starting from Casa Batlló on Passeig de Gracia, then walking South to Les Rambles and stopping by the Mercado de La Boqueria for lunch (or grocery shopping!).

OLD TOWN The opposite of Les Rambles, the old town is a maze of narrow stone roads with antique stores and unique lampposts designed by Gaudi.

FAVORITE BAR At Dow Jones, drink prices are driven by demand. If you buy a Heineken, the price of Heineken goes up by 10 cents USD and the price of every other beer drops by 5 cents USD.

WHAT ELSE Save paella for Valencia and go for local Catalan food. Visit the Penedés area which is around 30 minutes south of Barcelona (along AP-7). This area is known for the production of cava, a Spanish sparkling wine, as well as Catalan gastronomy. Go on a tour of Spain’s largest vineyard—Torres. We drove there on a weekend, so all the restaurants were closed on Sunday and Monday. Luckily, the B&B we stayed at offered an authentic home-cooked dinner by a Catalan grandmother. Some of my favourites: escalivada, crema catalana, and fresh tomato spread on bread drizzled with olive oil and vinegar.

VENICE, ITALY Venice is a sinking fairytale, sans cars and filled with a myriad of Renaissance-era architecture. Connecting the over one hundred islands of Venice are a seemingly infinite amount of foot bridges, including the Bridge of Sighs, pictured here.

by SERA BARBIERI

n i s k o Bo

y r u b s m o Blo by LILY MCMAHON

d n a l g n E , n o d n Lo

eautiful books are my vice. This thought passes through my mind as I contemplate whether or not to purchase Thomas Gowing’s The Philosophy of Beards. The hardback cover is chartreuse and smooth as butter, and the topic is oh so peculiarly fitting to memories: when I was in high school, I engaged in a formal debate tournament with a boy who used his beard as a warrant for philosophical legitimacy. Our judge apparently found this amusing and to make a long story short, I lost. It must be providence that this book, an edition republished for the first time since 1854, is displayed at the front of the London Review Bookshop. It also doesn’t hurt that succumbing to my desire allows me to retain such an admirable vice. If asked what compelled me to enter the London Review Bookshop, other than its obvious function as a refuge from the rain, no less, one filled with books, I would have to attribute its intrigue to the menu of its attached cafe. Taped to the bottom left corner of the window, speckled with glittering beads of rain, the menu promises comforting hot coffees and soups suitable to the tastes of a San Francisco

foodie. But regardless of these appealing details, I go in and buy the book. The London Review Bookshop is one of many that dot Bloomsbury, all of which may be described as “hidden gems” in tourist brochures. However, they are really rather ubiquitous with the illusion of isolation: each burrows warmly within a facade of exposed brick like wildflowers sprouting organically from a garden. Whether a shop dedicated to astrology, comics or occult lesbianism, there seems to be a window for every breed of curious. And behind each window is an inception of “windows”: rows and rows of leather or cloth bound paper and ink, each offering a lens to some forgotten past. At least it feels poetic to imagine that the book I happen upon is indeed forgotten, as though by lifting its cover, I am disinterring the bodies of a past civilization. Indeed, the pages of used books are bone white, and the leather covers are crackled faintly like the spidery lines of fingerprints. But if I’m honest, I really am too much of a snob to always spend my time pouring over forgotten words when there are so many culturally relevant books with awards to read.

My thoughts spiral down this path; at the crossroads of literature’s past and present, amongst so many stores, books and letters, I can’t help but feel dwarfed by the vastness of human imagination. The Bloomsbury bookshop seems a microcosm for London in general; an endless compilation of eccentric stories, whether concealed in a paper cover or the walking human form. There are simply more books and people than I will ever be able to encounter; perhaps a self evident truth, but one that I’m still learning to accept. And yet, here I am, with my fresh copy of The Philosophy of Beards, strolling down a brick alleyway that shoots off from Great Russell Street, behind the British Museum. Whatever lonely craving it is that magnetizes people to the city or to the sporadic quirky bookshop, draws me along aimlessly. The more I wander, the more I feel I must be bound to some invisible gravitational force. It’s an uneasy feeling that floods me with more similar thoughts that seem vague and important, like ominous shelves of shut book covers. This tends to happen to me when I spend too long in a bookshop.

九份/JIUFEN I

have to be honest. One of the main reasons that I took a trip to Jiufen, an hour away from Taipei, was because of a film. The film, Spirited Away follows Chihiro, a girl who discovers a vacant town on the journey to her new house with her parents. The town is vacant, but the streets are lined with stalls full of delicious treats. Her parents start to greedily shove food down their throats—whilst doing so, they turn into pigs. Chihiro finds that the only way to save her parents and return them back to humans is to work for a woman, Yubaba, at a bathhouse for mystical creatures. Directed

by JENNA ELLIS

by Hayao Miyazaki, the film is one of my favorites. I heard that a Taiwanese town not too far from Taipei had inspired him and I knew I had to go. We took an hour and half long bus ride from Taipei to the hills where we found Jiufen. The town occupied the side of a large hill, resting on a slope. The bus dropped us off on the side of the road, and we followed the other tourists. We were led to the beginning of a market place. I didn’t realize that walking into the market was walking into the heart of the town; it was a labyrinth of street vendors carrying all sorts of trades. The assortment of smells

and visuals was exhilarating, even overwhelming. The streets were crammed with people. We were pushed from one street to another. After grabbing food in the back of one the food stalls, we floated on with the crowd and found a teashop to duck into. The shop overlooked the hills with a view of the ocean. It was not till after tea that we escaped from the path of tourists in multicolored ponchos. Only then did I understand the inspiration of the film: the empty streets were full of life, but not people. They had energy about them, lit solely by lanterns or the occasional streetlamp.

THE ROBOT RESTAURANT by ETHAN SAPIENZA

“...nothing short of explosive stimulation.”

n the streets of Kabukichō, a red light district in Tokyo, there are two large, gratuitously sexualized robotic women, whose laps are open for visitors to sit upon. Their arms are controlled by levers, as a repetitious song that consists of “roboto, roboto” hums in the background. Oppressive strobe lights encase the animatronics. This, in short, is the Robot Restaurant. Well not exactly; the entrance to the infamous dining experience sits around the corner, but the pair of robot women make for an excellent preview of what’s to come. The tourist destination boasts photos of famous visitors in its ticket booth and was even featured on Anthony Bourdain’s “Parts Unknown.” It’s a quasi-eating spot, where people pay to eat mediocre sushi and watch nonsensical performances Naturally, one cannot immediately enter the restaurant: there is a waiting lounge, decked out entirely in mirrors, TV’s (showcasing what’s to come as well as poorly CGI’d explosions), more strobe lights and a jazz band, fully dressed in chrome Daft Punk-esque gear. Their music is meant to calm, but a combination of Doritos, beer, and overkill interior hardly provides a soothing experience. The true Robot Restaurant, which guests are ushered into after a half an hour in the lounge, is nothing short of explosive stimulation. Tucked into the basement of the complex is a main staging area, where three rows of seats and tables are situated on each side of a rectangular room, facing one another like bleachers. A runway forms in between the seats and giant screens hang on the walls, displaying poorly formatted images and texts that appear to be made on MS paint, undoubtedly an aesthetic choice. After an offering of popcorn, chips and sushi, the show begins. There are three acts. The first is banging gibberish—chaotic, yet wonderfully so. Performers dressed in neon, warrior-like garb roll out on strobing floats, dancing, shouting and hammering on drums. Figures in masks dance as giant structures wheel through the small catwalk, practically falling onto the audience. After some time of musical exuberance, the show suddenly breaks. The second act is the meat of the performance. After a short intermission,

guests are informed that a planet lush with nature exists, populated by sexual women and animals who can speak. Unfortunately, a legion of robot warriors invades and a war ensues. Chains are brought out to protect the audience as opposing floats enter from each side, mostly animalistic in appearance (for example, a giant snake ridden by a woman or a robotic dragon that fires lasers) fighting one another. The undeniable highlight, though, is a gorilla hanging from a giant bug, which projects sparklers. Explosions are aplenty, all of which appear highly unsafe and all the more riveting. The final performance is a roll call as every final punch is thrown: from transformers to a robot-Superman-clown to a Horse King to clearly copyrighted “Jurassic Park” music. It’s pandemonium, adhering to no story or theme as a female conductor yells inaudible jargon and blows a whistle. Words cannot properly surmise the finale, nor the show in general, which is matched only by the very experience of attending the Robot Restaurant. It’s a pastiche of pop culture and shouting, amounting to nothing other than blissful disarray.

(above) A pair of robot women that serve as the entrance to the robot restaurant in the red light district. (below) Two members of the jazz band dressed in Daft Punk gear.

by JACK DAVIDSON

MISSION MOUNTAINS, MONTANA

NICE, FRANCE

by SERA BARBIERI

Edi tor â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Pi cks From wanderings down the Southern coast of France to finding a lone buffalo roaming the grasslands in Montana, each issue we are left with photographs that are just too noteworthy to miss.