Smithsonian

August 17, 2010November 8, 2011

Three Dinners on Hydra

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To commemorate the Smithsonian Presents Travels with Rick Steves magazine — now on sale online, and at newsstands nationwide — Rick is blogging about the 20 top destinations featured in that issue. One of those destinations is the Greek isle of Hydra.

The island of Hydra is made-to-order for relaxing…and that means eating, long and well. Greek food — so simple, but oh so good — tastes even better in the convivial mom-and-pop tavernas that seem to be a Greek island specialty. On Hydra, I have three favorites. They’re so delicious and so different, it almost makes it worth stretching a two-night stay to three nights to be able to dine at one each evening. I’m just wrapping up a visit to Hydra to update my guidebook, and I made a point to stop in at each of these.

Taverna Leonidas, which feels like a cross between a history museum and a friendly local home, has been around so long it doesn’t need (and doesn’t have) a sign out front…everyone just seems to know where it is. The island’s oldest and most traditional taverna was the hangout for sponge-divers a century ago. Today, former New Yorkers Leonidas and Panagiota, who returned to Hydra in 1993 to take over the family business, enjoy feeding guests as if they’re family. Diners call in the morning to discuss what main dish they’d like. Then Leonidas and Panagiota shop and prepare a great meal. When I filmed a TV show about Hydra, I found these two almost too eager-to-please: We’d arranged ahead of time to film dinner here. When we showed up, we found that they’d closed the place down just for us. Unfortunately, empty restaurants make for bad TV; we’d rather be surrounded by other diners. And so we filmed an intimate dinner…just Leonidas, Panagiota, my producer Simon, and me. But the food and company was so wonderful, it was good TV after all.

Taverna Gitoniko — which Hydriots simply call “Manolis and Christina” for its warm and kindly owners — is an Hydra institution. Offering wonderful hospitality, delicious food, and a delightful rooftop garden, this tricky-to-find taverna is worth seeking out for a memorable meal. Visitors climb up a staircase to a vine-covered terrace nestled above the rooftops of Hydra. Christina is a great cook — everything is good. My Greek-island M.O. works perfectly here: Order a variety of starters to sample as many different dishes as possible.

My favorite way to cap any Hydra day is to follow the coastal path to the rustic, picturesque village of Kaminia, which hides behind the headland from Hydra town. Kaminia’s pocket-sized harbor shelters the community’s fishing boats, and on the bluff just above is Kodylenia’s Taverna. Owner Dimitris takes his own boat out early in the morning to buy the day’s best catch directly from the fishermen, before they even come back to port. Here, with a glass of ouzo and some munchies, as the sun slowly sinks into the Saronic Gulf and boats become silhouettes, you can drink to the beauties of a Greek isle escape.

I hope you’ve enjoyed revisiting 20 of my favorite destinations this summer. The Smithsonian magazine covering these 20 places is just finishing its run on the newsstands. Good news: It sold great. It seems that, just like travelers on Hydra have an appetite for that perfect Greek taverna meal, travelers back home hunger for tales of faraway places. Thanks for joining me.

August 12, 2010November 8, 2011

Bruges: Callused Pinkies, Wobbly Fries, and a High-Calorie Passion for Good Living

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Chocolate, beer, canalside bike rides, French fries, carillon concerts…Bruges is an amazing little tourist town. While you might get discouraged as you shuffle through its sights along with hordes of tourists, it’s worth it. The town entertains with a unique knack for excellence and an infectious passion for good living.

Locals swear by their personal favorite chocolatier. They know that when the weather’s too hot, the chocolate-makers close down. The people of Bruges buy their chocolate with a concern for freshness like a muffin-eater does in the USA. Yesterday’s chocolate just won’t do.

Pubs are not just pubs. They are destinations…as the annual visits of many American beer aficionados attest. Pubs in the ye olde center — places you’d think would be overrun by tourists — are the proud domain of locals, who find the fact that monasteries have historically brewed the finest Belgian beers perfectly in line with their personal theology.

French fries (called Vlaamse frites, or “Flemish fries,” for the region of Flanders, in which Bruges lies) are another guilty local pleasure. One time a Bruges chef took me into the kitchen to witness the double-deep-frying process required to make a fry up to Flemish standards. His nervous, giggly reveal reminded me of the kid who showed me my first dirty magazine at the Y back when I was a grade-schooler. He’d pick up a single fat fry, ready for its second hot-oil bath. Holding it at the bottom, he made it wobble, as if playfully sharing a centerfold.

Bruges offers the best carillon concert I’ve found in Europe (normally June-Sept Mon, Wed, and Sat at 21:00; Oct-May Wed and Sun at 14:15). The city puts out benches in the courtyard below the City Hall bell tower. You can hear the tunes ringing out from the tower’s bells anywhere in the town center. But to sit in that courtyard, looking up at the rustic brick tower and hearing the performance, is a ritual for locals…and it just seems right.

Seated there one evening, I gaze up at the lofty tower. Like a kid checks in with his mom and dad before going down a long slide at the playground, the carillonneur pops his head out a window and waves. Then he disappears and begins hammering — literally hammering, as a carillon keyboard looks like the keyboard foot pedals of a big organ, yet are played by the little-finger sides of clenched fists.

After the concert, we clap, and he appears again — tiny head popping out the little window to happily catch our applause. The crowd dissipates. I wait at the base of the tower to personally thank the carillonneur. A few minutes later, he’s at street level, in his overcoat, looking like any passerby. I shake his hand and find myself gripping a freakishly wide little finger. A lifetime of pounding the carillon has left him with a callus that more then doubled the width of his pinky. Just one more artist in the city of Bruges.

August 7, 2010November 8, 2011

Aerø: Everything’s so…Danish

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While big cities often mask the distinctive features of a nation, I find the rural corners and small towns give a better insight into what makes a particular culture unique. A strong social ethic permeates Danish society, and you really feel that on the quiet and sleepy little isle of Aerø.

On Aerø, you’re welcome to pick berries and nuts, but historically the limit has been “no more than would fit in your hat.” For years I’ve been recommending Mrs. Hansen’s bike-rental depot next to the gas station at the edge of town. Recently, a big hotel in town (with far more economic clout) decided to rent bikes, too. I saw Danish communalism in the reaction of a local friend of mine: “They don’t need to do that — that’s Mrs. Hansen’s livelihood.” Of course, there’s no law forbidding it, and with our social ethic, we’d just say competition is good. But in Denmark, to look out for Mrs. Hansen’s little bike-rental business was a matter of neighborly decency.

I love to rent a bike from Mrs. Hansen and pedal into the idyllic Danish countryside, where I find myself saying “cute” more than I should. When in the Netherlands, I have a running joke with my guide friends. We say, “Everything’s so…Dutch.” Now, in Denmark, I say, “Everything’s so…Danish.”

Denmark is, simply, cute. Travelers here find the human scale and orderliness of Danish society itself the focus of their “sightseeing.” The place feels like a pitch ‘n putt course sparsely inhabited by blonde Vulcans. And survey after survey finds the Danes the most content and happy people on the planet.

August 2, 2010November 8, 2011

Visit Blackpool and Las Vegas to Put the P in "Pristine"

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I was in Las Vegas recently. While immersed in the fun with people from all walks of life, I couldn’t stop thinking about England’s Blackpool. Both resorts provide their country a place where a strata of society can get down to the basic mission of life — mating — and then offer an affordable escape for that same gang to enjoy an invigorating break from a life of meaningless work.

Kitsch, gaudy hotels, leggy temptations, and lots of lights. Blackpool extends its season into the winter with its Illuminations festival. Vegas is bright as day all night. Strolling each resort, you mingle with people in love, families awestruck at dancing water shows, and gangs of friends letting loose. You also see lost souls, the consequences of a lifetime of bad diet, people who can’t afford limos in limos, and lots of booze. Gambling offers even perennial losers a chance to win. Blackpool, like Vegas, tried to become a family destination. But apparently adult distractions are more profitable. So, Vegas sidewalks are littered with playing-card-sized call-girl ads.

Las Vegas and Blackpool each have their own Eiffel Tower (where you can “see Paris” without really leaving home) and a busy schedule of dazzling shows that keep big stars big long after their general sales potential has ebbed. Blackpool employs the British equivalents of Cher, Barry Manilow, and Donnie and Marie — who are all still in their prime on The Strip. (I was marveling at giant billboards of Marie Osmond — several stories tall. Her big smile was everywhere. Then I noticed rice or something clogging the little triangles between her whitened teeth.)

In Vegas, people seriously compare the buffets. (For $24.95, you can eat as much as you want for 24 hours. The shrimp is great at the Mirage.) And in Blackpool, people talk about fish-and-chips as if it’s high cuisine. “Hen parties” roam, the bride wearing her veil and slowly sucking her way through a crude lollipop. Both Blackpool and Vegas make your next stop either more dreary…or more pristine.

July 31, 2010November 8, 2011

Mama’s Boys in Venice

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The challenge when visiting Venice is to see a community beyond the “adult Disneyland” quality of the experience for most tourists. If you know where to look, it’s not hard. Whether in the practical issues of actually living here, or in the unique characteristics of the people who make up the Venetian community, the city is more than postcard views and old buildings.

The cheapest place to moor your boat in Venice is a place without easy access. Boat owners climb along walls above canals like Italian cat-men to get to their private boats — the vessels that give them a parallel world apart from the tourist bustle.

If you’re excited about witnessing a high tide in Venice, be warned — the high waters bring out the elevated walkways and some fun memories…but they also force the city’s huge rats out of their secluded dens and into the open.

Handy signs on building corners let anyone who simply looks up know where they’re going, anywhere in town. But keep in mind that locals aren’t above using these signs to direct traffic to the seemingly logical route, while those in the know can get around quicker by unsigned, less congested alternate routes.

While Italian men in general can be mammoni (mamma’s boys), reluctant to leave the nest — to cut the cordone ombelicale (umbilical cord of a mama to cook and wash for them) — Venetians take this trait to unrivaled heights. Many men stay at home until their thirties. They leave only when they marry and are able to have another woman steer them through life.

I was talking with my Venetian friends, Antonella and Piero, over a glass of wine. The topic of conversation: macho and mammoni in Venice. I was impressed by the strong feelings Antonella had about the matter.

“What is macho?” she says. “There are no macho men in Venice. They are mama’s boys. We call this mammoni.”

Piero, as if he’s heard the complaint a thousand times, cries, “Ahhh, mammoni.” Pulling an imaginary cord from his belly and petting it rather than cutting it, he says, “It is true. I cannot cut the cordone ombelicale. I love my mama. And she loves me even more.”

Antonella says, “The Italian boys, 95 percent stay at home until they find a wife to be their new mother. Thirty, thirty-five years old, they are still with their mothers. Even if they move out, they come home for the cooking and laundry. This is not macho…this is ridiculous. ”

“Aaan-duh,” she continues, lighting a cigarette, “they want a wife exactly like their mother. If they find a woman like me, independent, with some money, perhaps beautiful, this is a problem.”

Piero nods like a scolded puppy. “Yes, this is true.”

Antonella says, “If I make my hair special and wear strong makeup, they will take me to dinner and take me to bed. But they will not look at me to make a family. They want to be sure their wife won’t leave them. A woman like me…it is too risky.”