Smaller text Larger text

Month: January 2018

Posted on

Confessions of a Rick Steves Tour Guide

It has been a frantic week here at the Rick Steves’ Europe home office in Edmonds, Washington. We’ve been playing host to an invasion of more than a hundred tour guides from all over Europe and beyond, in town for our annual guide summit and reunion — 10 solid days of strategy sessions, business meetings, reconnecting with tour members, and, of course, parties. I love having all the guides around. It’s exhilarating…but exhausting.

Having all of my tour-guiding buddies in town has me nostalgic for my own days of guiding. For several years, I split my time in Europe between writing guidebooks and guiding our Best of Eastern Europe and Best of the Adriatic tours. About ten years ago, I realized I didn’t have time for both. I went all-in with the writing, and “retired” from guiding.

People sometimes ask me how to be a Rick Steves tour guide. The answer: Be a passionate traveler…then do it with 26 people in tow. Guiding is hard work. It’s fun and rewarding. But most of the time, it hardly qualifies as “glamorous.” Every tour guide collects funny anecdotes about those little serendipities — good and bad — that befall them and their tour members. Here’s my own collection of warts-and-all stories that, if nothing else, might give you a little empathy for your guide.

The Camaraderie of Tour Guides

First off — and I say this from the heart, not out of any professional obligation — the tour guides I have the pleasure of working with at Rick Steves’ Europe are astonishingly cool people. My wife and I have a tradition of inviting our Eastern European guides to our home for dinner, offering them a homey and casual break from a week of conference rooms, happy hours, and catered meals. We did it again last Saturday. And our hundred-year-old craftsman house in Seattle was filled with what has to be the most riotous laughter it’s ever witnessed.

Despite our attempts to herd our friends to our dining room table, they all insisted on squeezing into the tiny nook in the corner of our kitchen — a dozen Czechs, Hungarians, Poles, Slovenes, and Bulgarians sitting cross-legged and cracking each other up. It turns out every single nationality has their own set of jokes to tease Hungarians about their uniquely tongue-twisting language. I learned a lot that evening, including how Czech parents enjoy sending their kids to Native American-themed summer camps to live in tepees; what my nickname would be in Czech (Kamerka); and how Bulgarians have a bizarre tradition of letting their kids “ride” the freshly slaughtered Christmas pig for good luck. (Hearing this last story, several of the guides glanced over at me and said, “You writing this down, Cameron?” They know me so well.)

We’ve been doing this for years, and it’s fun to look back on the history we share as members of the same guiding family.

Wherever they go in Europe, tour guides exert a powerful magnetism on each other. In very popular cities — like Venice — there can be several Rick Steves Tours in town on the same day. We try to avoid having groups run into each other. But after hours — once our tour members are properly oriented and our accounting spreadsheets are filed — guides can’t resist slipping out to hoist a glass together. I once hopped on a milk-run train to have a beer with a couple of guides three towns away. Sometimes it feels like there’s an unspoken contest to get as many guides as possible together in one place. I think this camaraderie — our spirit of “we’re all in this together” — is a hallmark of the specialness of Rick Steves Tours. (What other company would fly a hundred guides to the USA for a week of meetings?)

Bus Drivers: The True VIPs

Anyone who’s been on a tour knows that the bus driver is another essential part of the experience. And in the European tourism world, bus drivers occupy their own subculture. In big cities, there are entire bars patronized entirely by a Babel of drivers from across the Continent. And in places with a mass tourism tradition, it’s the bus drivers — who have the power to whisper to an overwhelmed guide, “I know just the place for this busload of tourists to stop and buy lunch” — who are treated like kings.

In one of these areas, there was an only-game-in-town roadside restaurant where we took our groups. Tucked in a corner of the sprawling dining hall was a special little drivers’ dining area, elevated and roped off like a VIP lounge. One time, curious about the experience, I took our driver up on his invitation to join him there. We were given menus without prices and were waited on attentively, practically being hand-fed peeled grapes. From our privileged dais, we looked out over the congested dining hall, trying to avoid eye contact with our tour members as they shuffled through a self-service cafeteria line.

Of course, Rick Steves Tours are distinguished by our insistence that the driver is part of our group. At most meals, we require that the driver sit with our tour members for lively conversation. (The restaurant I just described was a special exemption to this policy. In fact, my driver was afraid not to dine in the VIP section, for fear of upsetting the delicate social order.)

My all-time favorite driver trained with me on his first-ever Rick Steves Tour. When I told him that we actually wanted him to interact socially with our tour members — which was unheard-of at his very traditional company — he was at first aghast, and then excited. It turns out he’d been stifling his gregarious instincts for many years…and on this trip, he made up for lost time, becoming dear friends with virtually everyone on the bus. He even joined us on some of our town walking tours, and participated in my bus lectures when we arrived in his home country. He went on to work exclusively for us for many years…until retiring, a very happy man.

One year, two of my other favorite bus drivers came to Edmonds for our weeklong tour reunion festivities. They were hardworking, blue-collar guys from Slovenia who had never been to the United States. I took them to Fred Meyer, where they filled their oversized suitcases with electronics, jeans, and toys that would’ve cost double back home.

During that week, while the guides were tied up with meetings and the drivers had free time, they got into a nice little routine of having meals at the local main-street diner. On their last night in town, they insisted on taking me and another tour guide out to dinner. But when the bill came, they paid with exact change…and nothing more. In explaining our customs to them, it dawned on us that they had not been tipping all week long. The next day, after taking our driver friends to the airport, we stopped by the diner with a few 20-dollar bills: “You remember those two Eastern European guys who kept coming here last week and stiffing you on the tip? Well, here’s the thing…”

When Nerves Fray and Tempers Flare

As a tour guide, you’re equal parts historian and shepherd. Bus time is for teaching tour members the story of the place they’re visiting, and for getting them oriented to the nuts and bolts of what’s coming next (explaining what we’re doing today, taking orders for dinner tomorrow, and making sure everyone knows the exchange rate and the location of the nearest ATM).

Tour members have varying appetites for different types of information, and — understandably — they tend to zone out on the bus. So if something is important, I’ll repeat it. And if it’s really important, I may repeat it several times. One time, when I passed out little slips of paper for mid-tour evaluations, one of my tour members hand-delivered it back to me. “You know,” he said, “I was just about to write that you repeat yourself too much. But at that very moment, someone next to me asked about something I have heard you say at least five or six times already. So my feedback is: Keep up the good work.”

On another occasion, we were at the bitter end of a very long day on the bus. We’d had some weather-related delays, and now, at long last, we finally checked into our hotel. My tour members met in the lobby and dutifully trudged 10 minutes through the drizzle until we were all standing under a leaky awning on the town’s main square.

They were tired. I was tired. Tempers were flaring. But they needed to eat. As efficiently as I could, I did a little spin-tour of the square, pointing out the locations of three or four of my favorite restaurant options, ending with, “Any questions?” There was a tense moment as the soaked and famished group clenched every muscle, hoping the answer was no. But one woman pointedly raised her hand. “Yeah,” she said impatiently, “but when are you gonna tell us where we should go to eat?” The entire rest of the group groaned in unison. (She survived.)

One time I celebrated my birthday at a tired old communist-era hotel on a Croatian island. The hotel had a large population of stray cats, who swirled around tour members enjoying a drink on the terrace, and often wandered inside the lobby. (Almost everybody viewed this as a big plus. The biggest concern was resisting the urge to adopt a Croatian kitty, or five, to bring home as a souvenir.) My tour members had thoughtfully tracked down a birthday cake for me, and threw me a nice little surprise party in the lobby. I turned my back on the cake to chat, and when I looked back to cut some slices, a cat had climbed up on the table and was feasting away. Fortunately, we were able to cut around the kitten bite marks.s

An Extremely Hot Dinner

I led the first-ever departure of our Best of the Adriatic Tour, which I’d co-designed with a couple of other tour guides and our office staff, stitching together all of our favorite experiences and restaurants. I was particularly excited to take my group to a rustic little tavern in the hilly, vineyard-draped interior of Croatia’s Istrian Peninsula. I’d had an utterly delightful meal there the year before, sitting out on a breezy terrace, with distant views of the sun extinguishing itself in the shimmering Adriatic. It was a perfect memory. And as our bus pulled up to the restaurant at the end of a long day enjoying the blazing sun, I couldn’t wait to share that same experience with my sunburned tour members.

But my heart sank as the owner walked us through the already-full terrace to get to the interior. There she’d laid out a glorious table for us…directly in front of the huge hearth, where glowing coals did all of the cooking.

Already sweating from the heat outside, but with no other seating options available, we settled into the sweltering stone dining room. And then the owners — seriously overestimating the appetites of their honored guests — fed us at least two courses more than anyone could possibly eat. By the meal’s end, we were stuffed, and we could have wrung out our shirts. (Rest assured that’s a mistake we only made once — on every departure since, that restaurant serves us a more manageable-sized meal…and the terrace table is permanently reserved for Rick Steves groups.)

“This Ist Mein First Tour in English!”

These days, of course, we invest mightily in advance-scouting new itineraries. By the time the first tour bus sets out with paying tour members, our Tour Operations staff and guides have already driven the entire route by car, and know every stop down to the minute. But back in the day, we were far more by-the-seat-of-our-pants. I was the assistant guide on the first-ever departure of our Best of Eastern Europe tour, 17 years and several itinerary iterations ago. We felt like trailblazers, improvising much of the tour, but everything clicked…and our tour members were having a blast.

When we reached Budapest, our lead guide decided he’d be more comfortable hiring a professional local guide to add some color commentary to his city tour. Our hotel insisted they knew the perfect agency, which employed only the very best guides, so we let them arrange it. Our guide was energetic, personable, and knowledgeable… but the moment she opened her mouth, it was clear she spoke virtually no English.

We loaded our group onto the bus and set off on a driving tour around the city, our guide providing commentary in German with a smattering of English. She got the words “left” and “right” mixed up, which — one would think — should disqualify anyone seeking to become a tour guide. But she was undeterred. Soon after leaving the hotel, we passed one of Budapest’s most venerable thermal baths. “And on the left,” she said — meaning, of course, “right” — “you see example of our baaahs. We are sehr famous for our baaahs.” It just so happened, at that very moment a bus drove by on our left side. Stifling giggles, I watched as every tour member’s head swiveled left to see the bus, instead of right to see the bath.

After a few minutes, our lead guide wisely pulled the plug, and directed the driver to pull over at Heroes’ Square. The local guide announced, “Now we have fünf minute to see square, then back to bus.” Our lead guide politely but firmly whispered that she would, in fact, not be getting back on this bus with us. Seeming to understand, she dejectedly got on the mic one last time: “So, jetzt I must say goodbye. I am sorry you no understand. This ist mein first tour in English!”

When You Gotta Go…

Finally, a tour guide has to be prepared for anything…including impromptu bathroom breaks. On one tour, I was hiking my group through a lush national park of gushing waterfalls. We reached the boat dock at the midpoint of the hike, and one of my all-time favorite tour members came up to me and discreetly asked when the next bathroom break might be. I explained that there were no toilets at this dock, but there was one at the other end of the 20-minute boat trip we were about to take. In the meantime, he could use the bushes. Glancing around, he said, “No, I’m OK. I think I can wait.”

We boarded the boat. About five minutes later, my wide-eyed tour member approached me again, with a newfound urgency. “Nope, can’t wait. What are my options here?” We scanned the deck of the open boat, and came up empty. Sensing his desperation, I led him to the little steering cabin in the back of the boat, where the captain and first mate stood stoically. I stuck my head in the door and asked if there were any WC options. They shook their heads vigorously and pointed to the dock we were approaching…10 long, watery minutes away.

At this point, what was going to happen was going to happen now, so my tour member stepped into the little cabin and said, “Look, I’m gonna go. You just tell me where.” At first they tried to point him back out. But when he made a beeline for a little garbage can in the corner and unzipped his fly, they realized he was serious, and directed him to stand at the back of the boat.

And so we glided silently across the pristine lake, my tour member peeing off the back, and me standing discreetly in the cabin doorway to block the other passengers’ view. To this day, I don’t think any of his fellow tour members knew what happened on that boat. As for the people on the boat that passed us going in the other direction…well, that’s another story.

One of these days, I might just get back to guiding. I miss my tour guide and bus driver colleagues. I miss the wonderful tour members who join us on our buses. But most of all, I miss the crazy stories.

I’m lucky to know so many great guides. You can meet some of them through this guide interview series on our website.

Or, to travel along with them in person, check out our full lineup of tours.

For more stories of good trips gone bad, check out my “Jams Are Fun” series.

Posted on

Jams are Fun: Speed Traps and Bribes in Republika Srpska

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred set about to writing a memoir of her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out, after seeing so much of the world, Aunt Mildred realized that it’s not always the big museums, the fancy dinners, or the castles and cathedrals that stick with you most. It’s those serendipitous moments when things go awry. And so, in the spirit of Aunt Mildred, this post is the first in what I hope to be a recurring feature about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it. This travel jam takes place on the dusty back roads of rural Bosnia-Herzegovina.

I remember a time, not long ago, when crossing any border in Eastern Europe came with the possibility —  or probability — of being shaken down for a bribe. If you slip the guy 20 Deutschmarks, you enter Hungary now. If not…you wait two hours.

I’m happy to report that, in most places, those days are in the distant past. The allure of EU membership was enough for most countries to crack down on corruption. Still, in a few out-of-the-way enclaves, bribery is still a way of life. And one of those places just cost me €50.

After two fascinating days road-tripping through Bosnia with my buddy Ben, we were on our way out of Republika Srpska, within sight of the Croatian border. Leaving the little town of Vrbaška, the country road entered a sparsely populated area, and the car ahead of me slowed way down. Now, in Bosnia, this is far from unusual. Most Bosnians drive either recklessly fast or tortoise-slow — anything but the speed limit. So I zipped around him, just in time to see a roadside policeman flick his handheld “stop” sign at me.

Pulling over and rolling down my window, I trotted out my best “clueless tourist” routine (which, in this case, was not an act): “I’m sorry, was I speeding? I didn’t see any signs!”

The scruffy policeman, with a ragtag uniform cobbled together at an army surplus store, was polite but matter-of-fact. “You go too fast,” he said. He motioned me out of the car and over to his English-speaking partner back at the police cruiser.

Standing proudly by their radar gun, they showed me a stack of documentation in Cyrillic lettering. “Limit here is 50 kmh,” he said, gesturing at the fine print. “You go 66 kmh. Fine is 100 Bosnian marks, or 50 euro.”

They explained that I’d need to take the paperwork back to the town I’d just left, and pay my fine at the police station or post office. The problem was, it was Sunday morning, when every office in town is shut up tight. Meanwhile, back in the car sat Ben, who had a flight to catch in Zagreb, just over the border. Time was not on our side.

“Is there any way I can pay you the fine?” I suggested helpfully. The cops exchanged knowing glances, scratched their heads theatrically for a moment, and held a quick conference in Serbian. Finally came the answer: “We can pay fine for you later today. You pay us 50 euro, we take it to police station.”

Very pleased with themselves for brainstorming this solution, they filled out the byzantine paperwork in triplicate. Meanwhile, a strange sensation began to crawl its way up the back of my neck — a creeping certainty that my money would never make it back to that police station. Oh, they were doing someone a favor…it just wasn’t me.

The paperwork complete, I decided to experiment a little bit. “Can I have that carbon-copy of the ticket?” I asked them. They shot each other an alarmed glance, and shook their heads vigorously. “No, no, no, not possible, not possible,” they insisted. “This paper, you get only when you pay in office,” he explained.

Well, since we’re all being completely aboveboard here, certainly they couldn’t object to my taking a photograph of the speeding ticket…right? I pulled out my phone and held it up to frame a snapshot of the paperwork. They both jumped out of their uniforms and practically reached for their guns. “No! No! No! No! No!”

Really amping up the “stupid tourist” routine, I said, “Oh, I’m sorry! I need a photo for my company.” But they were on to me being on to them. They shot me a “nice try, bub,” look, and, using only gestures and a few gruff words, made my choice clear: You give us 50 euros and drive away with no more questions, and this is over. Otherwise, you’re about to spend a frustrating Sunday morning in bureaucratic hell, wandering around a two-bit town, begging somebody — anybody — to take your money.

I hate to contribute to corruption. But I had places to go. Would I make a principled stand against greedy small-town cops who clearly savored shaking down passing tourists? Or would I toss a bone to a couple of likely underpaid, hardworking guys in a hardscrabble corner of Europe, salvage the rest of my day, and get Ben to his flight on time?

The policeman took my 50-euro note with a tip of the hat, and we were on our way. Crossing the Croatian border minutes later, I was filled with a mix of regret and relief. While much of my beloved Eastern Europe has made great strides in joining the rest of the civilized world, it seems that Republika Srpska is trapped in their old ways. No doubt, those cops enjoyed a few laughs (and a few beers) at my expense. But little did they realize that today’s target was a travel writer who’s devoted much of his career to celebrating their overlooked little corner of Europe. And who would later be blogging to the whole world about just how corrupt the police force is in Vrbaška, Republika Srpska, Bosnia-Herzegovina, postal code 78400. Ask for Srđan and Saša.

When it comes to getting out of a jam, 50 euros is a hefty price to pay. On the other hand, I came away with a vivid memory. And in the grand scheme of things, I suppose I’ve paid a lot more for a lot less.

Posted on

Bosnia Road Trip: Off the Beaten Path in the Beautiful Balkans

Followers of my blog know I’m a little cuckoo for Bosnia-Herzegovina. I love its thriving cities, its beautiful landscape, its vivid culture, and its kind people. Over the course of about a dozen trips, I’ve mostly visited Mostar, Sarajevo, and the countryside sights scattered near them. And one thing remains constant: The more I see of Bosnia, the more I fall in love with it.

So, on my latest guidebook research trip, I scheduled a couple of extra days to delve deeper — into parts of Bosnia that few Americans visit, or have even heard of. I immediately thought of my travel buddy, Ben, the only American I know who geeks out about arcane Yugoslav history as much as I do. I shot him an email saying, “Could I interest you in a road trip through Travnik, Jajce, and Banja Luka?” I knew I’d found my Yugo-soulmate when he responded: “Ooooh! Jajce!”

And so Ben and I met up one Friday afternoon in Sarajevo, and caught up as we fortified ourselves with grilled meats and uštipci (chunks of fried dough). The next morning, we hopped into our car, curled up mountain roads out of town (past the 1984 Winter Olympics stadium), and drove the entire length of the Bosnian freeway system in a matter of 45 minutes. The new road was slick and efficient, hinting at a promising future for this little country — which strives both to upgrade its infrastructure, and to be better connected to the rest of Europe.

Clearing the Sarajevo suburbs, we kept our eyes peeled through the town of Viskovo, watching for the symmetrically shaped hill called Visočica — the site of what some believe (with little evidence other than a neat shape) to be a pyramid built tens of thousands of years ago. There was no time to stop and investigate, but with a quick glance from the highway, Ben and I were satisfied that science would be able debunk the “Bosnian pyramids” without our firsthand accounts.

Approaching our first stop, Travnik, we pulled off the main road to spiral up an impossibly twisty, impossibly steep lane striped with teeth-jarring cobbles, to reach the hilltop fortress overlooking town. Overshooting the gate but finding no parking higher up, I found myself doing a white-knuckle, nine-point turn to make my way back down to a wide spot in the “road,” wedged between someone’s front stoop and their mailbox.

Hiking up to Travnik’s fortress, we were rewarded with sweeping views over the pastoral Bosnian countryside. The steep hills, fuzzy and green, were punctuated by a smattering of minarets. For all the things Bosnia is known for — and unfortunately, to most Americans, the list consists almost solely of its horrific 1990s warfare — it seldom gets full credit for being simply beautiful. Overlooking the scenic valley that hems in little Travnik, wishing I had more time to do a little hiking, it occurred to me that rugged little Bosnia is like Switzerland, but without money. If only it had better infrastructure and a higher standard of living, Travnik would be a posh ski resort. But it doesn’t…so it isn’t.

Throughout our road trip, I was on a crusade to try ćevapčići in its many forms. For aficionados of Balkan cuisine, Bosnia is the homeland of ćevap — perfectly seasoned minced meat formed into little links, then grilled on an open fire — much as France specializes in cheese, or Spain corners the market on bizarre seafood. I was excited to start my culinary adventure in Travnik, based on the recommendation of our Bosnian friend (and fellow Rick Steves tour guide), Sanel: “While in Travnik, for the love of God, do not miss ćevapčići in Restaurant Hari.”

Tragically, Restaurant Hari was closed for renovation. For the love of God, indeed! But our search for it led us to Travnik’s architectural gem: the hauntingly beautiful, wood-carved Sulejmanija Mosque. The interior was closed, but we discovered a modern mini-market tucked in its basement. Ben explained that this custom dates back to the earliest days of Islam in Bosnia, when it made sense to invite merchants to open up shop in this central and well-protected space. Just up the street is a museum filling the former home of Nobel Prize-winning novelist Ivo Andrić. There’s a lot going on in little Travnik.

Undeterred, we continued on our ćevap quest, which took us across the main highway to another Bosnian friend’s recommendation: Lutvina Kahva, a grill café with an inviting riverside terrace perched just so, at the end of a long, gushing series of gentle waterfalls.

In the Muslim parts of Bosnia, as throughout the Islamic world, running water is a cultural fixture. While Catholics bless still water and call it holy, Muslims believe that the power of nature is in its movement; they prefer water to be continually flowing, cleansing, replenishing, circulating. Just as a dervish whirls to connect with the spirituality of the earth and the heavens, so, too, should water be in motion.

Listening to the mesmerizing gurgle, I dug into a big plate of perfectly grilled ćevap on flatbread (somun), slathered with the decadent, perfectly tart cream cheese called kajmak, sprinkled with chopped fresh onions, and liberally doused with the explosively flavorful eggplant-and-red-pepper paste called ajvar. To finish the meal, I ordered a cup of bosanska kafa (unfiltered Bosnian coffee) — which, just as our friend had told us, came on its own little copper tray with a Turkish delight (rahatlokum)…and a single cigarette (Yugoslav-era Sava brand, of course). Caffeine, sugar, and nicotine: The holy triumvirate of Bosnian stimulants.

Climbing back into our car, we languidly curled through more idyllic Bosnian countryside — and over a desolate mountain pass — about an hour to our next stop: the town of Jajce (pronounced “YAI-tseh”). A provincial center of about 30,000 people, Jajce owns just about the most stunning setting of any town I’ve seen: Preening on a hilltop over thundering waterfalls that tumble into a tight riverbend.

But for Partisans and Tito sympathizers, that is all merely preamble to Jajce’s true claim to fame as the birthplace of Yugoslavia. It was here, in November of 1943, that the Anti-Fascist Council for the National Liberation of Yugoslavia (AVNOJ) held its second convention. While that sounds pretty obscure to outsiders, it’s a big deal: It was at this meeting that representatives of various groups decided that, should they prevail in World War II, they would create a bold new incarnation of Yugoslavia.

Ben and I drove into town, our Yugoslav-history-wonk pulses quickening. (As an indication of how off-the-deep-end I am for the marginalia of Yugoslav history, I have a vintage, circa-1970 tourist map of Yugoslavia hanging over my desk, next to photos of my wife, parents, and dearest friends.)

Parking the car, I paused to purchase a laughably flimsy Yugoslav flag from a street vendor before stepping into the convention hall. The big, mostly empty space — decorated as it was the day of that fateful convention — resembled a midcentury Holiday Inn ballroom. There stood Tito — in bronze statue form — at the stage. And, because the Yugoslavs were hoping to curry favor with the Allies, on the walls hung a motley crew of portraits: Tito, Stalin, Marx, Churchill, and FDR.

I must admit, the place gave me goosebumps. This is the “Independence Hall” of Yugoslavia, where — all joking aside — a ragtag band of homegrown freedom fighters had the audacity to form a country that did not even exist yet. Perusing the exhibits — one apiece furnished by each of Yugoslavia’s six constituent republics — I was swept up in this vision of a united Yugoslavia, which would flourish for nearly five decades before it was snuffed out by land-hungry politicians.

My nostalgia for Yugoslavia is, of course, tempered by an awareness of its many flaws. And, I think, it’s stoked by my knowledge of what happened at the end of the story: Yugoslavia was ripped apart by those who placed their own interests above the collective whole…and Bosnia paid the worst price of all.

Buying matching Tito lapel pins from the gift shop, we set out to explore the rest of Jajce — hiking down to the base of its thundering waterfall, then up through its antique streets to the mighty fortress capping the town. Jajce is a charming burg. With a little investment, it could be every bit as vital and alluring as trendy places like Český Krumlov, Romania’s Sighișoara, or Germany’s Rothenburg. Instead, it’s a sleepy town with little touristic metabolism. Perched on the ramparts of Jajce’s fortress, surveying the verdant hillsides, I was struck again by how magnificent this mountainous country is — and how, with some smart investment, it could become a travelers’ mecca. Switzerland without money, indeed.

Back in our car, we made a quick pit stop at yet another water feature — a higgledy-piggledy little stand of antique mills balanced just so on rocks in the middle of a waterfall.

Leaving Jajce, we set out for our next destination, in the other half of Bosnia. The Dayton Peace Accords that ended the wars in Bosnia in 1995 gerrymandered the country to create two major sub-states. One was the Bosniak and Croat part of Bosnia, which we’d been traveling through so far. The other was the Republika Srpska, a Serb-dominated territory that we were heading for now. Our next stop: Banja Luka (pop. 200,000), the capital of Republika Srpska.

We crossed the internal border with little fanfare, but soon we began to notice more Cyrillic on the signs, instead of the  more familiar Roman alphabet we’d been seeing so far. Approaching Banja Luka, we drove through the stunning canyon of the Vrbas River, a major rafting destination. The sight of a few rafters completing their late-day journey stoked our interest, but the next morning, our many phone calls to various rafting operators went unanswered. Apparently in Repubika Srpska, Sunday morning is sacrosanct — even if a pair of foreigners is dying to give you their money.

We checked into our Airbnb: a sprawling, well-equipped apartment a 10-minute walk from the center of town, all for about $40 a night. The front door — with a locking mechanism that slid a dozen no-nonsense bolts decisively into place, essentially turning the entire apartment into a fortified panic room — reminded us that, with the recent legacy of gruesome war, Bosnians don’t take home security lightly.

It was time for dinner, so we walked along Banja Luka’s broad boulevards to the river. We weren’t sure what to expect from this would-be capital of a would-be breakaway republic with a minuscule GDP. But we were pleasantly surprised by how modern and tidy Banja Luka felt — with the pride, economic metabolism, and vitality of any mid-sized Central European city.

I had only one agenda in Banja Luka, and that was to try the local ćevap. Grilled meat gourmands know that they do it differently here: Instead of little link-shaped sausages, Banja Luka-style (banjalučki) ćevapi is one long, continuous ćevap with hot peppers on the side. Yes, I’d already had ćevap once today. But when was I gonna make it back to Banja Luka?

We went to the historic fortress and nabbed the last available table at the fancy restaurant inside, Tvrđava Kastel. It was a rollicking scene, with a Balkan brass band blaring jaunty tunes in the corner. At the next table, a comically musclebound meathead grew increasingly animated in conversation with his tablemate. As he slowly amassed an impressive collection of empty beer glasses, it became difficult to tell whether this was a happy conversation or an angry conversation. As a pair of bespectacled, brainy Americans, we kept a very low profile.

I ordered my ćevap, but was crestfallen when it showed up not as my fantasized-for banjalučki ćevapi, but the same old version I’ve had all over Bosnia. Meanwhile, Ben chatted up our middle-aged, matronly server in Serbian. Charmed, she told Ben about her dear daughter, who lived part-time in Florida and worked the rest of the time on a cruise ship, hoping to permanently relocate stateside. Ben and I were imagining a demure, wholesome young woman pulling herself up by the bootstraps. But when she showed us a picture, we instantly grasped two things: First, the daughter — a masterpiece of plastic surgery, makeup, and spandex — was no shrinking violet. (The prevailing beauty aesthetic in these parts can most diplomatically be described as “porn glam.”) And second, our server had matchmaking designs on Ben. (“He can get you that visa you’ve been wanting. And he speaks Serbian, too!”) Escaping just before the formal proposal, we made our way back to our high-rise fortress.

The next morning, we poked around Banja Luka a bit more before heading out. The Museum of Republika Srpska fills a run-down, concrete-and-glass building that feels deserted. But, digging into the exhibits, we were impressed by how thoughtfully and even-handedly this almost-country presented itself. It accomplished what the national museum for any underdog nation should, which is to endear and intrigue us to a place we’d never really known much about.

The most compelling exhibit detailed the World War II years, when Bosnia was ruled by a Nazi puppet government called the Ustaše. The Croat-controlled Ustaše pursued the same genocidal regime as the Nazis, but with a regionally inflected spin — targeting their historic enemies, the Serbs. And the museum’s exhibits are as harrowing as any we had ever seen (mind you, Ben and I have both guided tours to Auschwitz-Birkenau). Ustaše camps lacked gas chambers, so most deaths were from blunt-force trauma. One grisly photo showed a very young Ustaše soldier grinning widely — as if in a prom portrait — as he posed with the disembodied head of an executed Serb warrior. And an entire wall was filled with gruesome photographs of babies who died at Ustaše concentration camps.

The most notorious of those camps — Jasenovac — sits just across the modern border, in Croatia. So Ben and I decided to stop off there on our way to catch his flight in Zagreb. The Jasenovac memorial site includes a small, modern museum documenting the history of the camp. The names of victims are etched in glass panels in the walls and hanging from the ceiling. And the thoughtful exhibits toe a very careful line, with soberly written displays and recorded testimonials from former prisoners — but without a trace of the graphic photos we’d just seen across the border. Many observers feel that, unlike Germany, Croatia has not entirely owned up to its culpability in World War II atrocities — partly because its 1940s activities later became entangled with its 1990s independence. And, while this museum is an important step forward, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they could have told the story with a little more…enthusiasm.

The emotional centerpiece of Jasenovac is a long, pensive hike from the museum: an evocative, flower-shaped sculpture by Serb artist Bogdan Bogdanović. Standing here, listening to the distant rumble of the sleek Croatian expressway, and looking just across the river to the hills of Bosnia’s Republika Srpska, Ben and I reflected on the contrasts that a whirlwind road trip through Bosnia offers.

Our journey is over. But one thing’s for sure: We’ll both be back. Bosnia has a strange magnetism on travelers…and not just those of us who have a Yugoslav map on our wall.

Posted on

It’s Truffle Day in Istria

Waking up in my cozy, cavelike apartment, buried deep in the winding streets of Rovinj, I have a special spring in my step. Today I’ll be touring the hill towns of Istria. And you know what that means: Today is Truffle Day.

The Istrian Peninsula — a wedge-shaped appendage dangling from the northwest corner of Croatia — has some of the world’s richest truffle deposits. Truffles love the damp floor of the oak forests that fill much of the Istrian interior. In 1999, a local entrepreneur unearthed a nearly three-pound white truffle. And ever since, Istria — and Croatia — have exploited their connection to these pungent, earthy, delicious little nuggets of flavor.

Truffles are tough tubers that grow entirely underground, virtually undetectable — except for their distinctive scent, which can be picked up only by the trained snout of a dog or a pig. Strolling through an Istrian hill town, you pass paddocks of noisy dogs…not pets, but working dogs, who help provide this region its livelihood. Truffles have been harvested in Istria since antiquity, and in more recent times of hardship, they’d be eaten as a stomach-filling substitute for meat. But these days, they represent a significant chunk of the local economy — and of the emerging Croatian culinary identity.

On my first visit to Istria, researching the first edition of my Rick Steves Croatia & Slovenia guidebook a decade and a half ago, I knew little about truffles…and, to be honest, wasn’t even sure if I’d ever tasted one. My local guide — who seemed to take it as a personal challenge to pry open my culinary blinders — brought me to a high-end restaurant (owned by that lucky giant-truffle discoverer) where every dish on the menu involved truffles. It was an education.

We dug into a tasting menu that included truffle-embedded hard cheeses and salami, truffle-infused pâté and tapenade, truffle frittata, handmade pasta grated with fresh truffles, vegetables sautéed in truffle oil, and truffle ice cream.

To this day, every time I start sketching out an itinerary to Croatia, when I get to Istria…my tongue tingles with the phantom flavor of truffle. And this morning, as I set out to explore the countryside, I already know that today will be my best “food day” of the trip.

Driving inland from Rovinj, I exit the Y-shaped “upsilon” highway and quickly lose myself in back roads, lacing together fine vistas and sleepy hill towns, stopping off at rustic rural hotels and restaurants, and driving past hardworking vintners — just preparing for the harvest — and the characteristic stone farmer huts called kažun. Istrians brag that their fertile soil comes in three colors — white, black, and red — which dictate the nuanced characteristics of local wines and produce. And on this September day, the hillsides are striped with colors.

Finally, it’s time for lunch. From Livade — the hub of the local truffle industry — I follow winding country lanes about 10 minutes to reach a middle-of-nowhere konoba I have been wanting to try. Pulling up the gravel driveway into Konoba Dolina (“Valley Inn”), I’m greeted perfunctorily and seated at a table with a polyester pink tablecloth, still stained by whoever just ate here. This place is nondescript and purely functional — not even charming enough to qualify as “rustic.” You’d never know this humble place was any good, if it weren’t for the happy hum of diners who fill the terrace.

Virtually every menu item highlights truffles. Knowing I’ll have pasta later, I choose the “pork loin with truffles.” It’s a simple but perfectly grilled slab of pork served on a bed of roasted and lightly smashed potatoes, delicately dusted with a generous layer of fresh-shaved black truffle. The dish is perfectly seasoned and outrageously good — and just 100 kunas (about $15).

As I eat, I notice that the jovial, fiftysomething Germans at the next table keep glancing over at me with a knowing smile — clearly enjoying how much I’m enjoying my food. When I get up to leave, one of them lifts his glass in a silent toast, one truffle aficionado to another.

Totally stuffed — and feeling the most blissful (and most sluggish) post-meal high of my trip — I waddle back to my car and drive across the valley, then twist up, up, up like a corkscrew along the slopes of Motovun — the ultimate Istrian hill town.

I park near the base of the cobbled main street and trudge 15 steep minutes up to the main square. I take my time, enjoying the tranquility, the refreshing breeze, and the peekaboo views of the gentle Istrian countryside: vineyard-draped hills over oak tree-dappled valleys.

Nearing the summit, I pass the restaurant I’ve already preselected for tonight’s dinner: Mondo Konoba. The problem is, it’s only been about an hour since my filling lunch. Normally I hope to get through my work as quickly as possible. But deep down, I’m secretly hoping that Motovun slows me down a little today…juuust enough to recover my appetite.

For the next few hours, I attend to my guidebook-research rounds in Motovun. Much hasn’t changed, but some things have. For example, the only hotel in town has opened an endearing town history museum, which I enjoy touring. I always knew that racecar driver Mario Andretti grew up in this traffic-free little burg. But it was fun to see an interview of him getting a little emotional talking about his hometown. (We love wee Motovun so much that our Rick Steves’ Best of the Adriatic Tour spends two nights here…and you can be sure that our tour members taste some local truffles.)

Sure enough, my to-do list is completed just in time for the opening of Mondo Konoba…and my next truffle feast. Mondo Konoba is run by a Sicilian-Istrian family who injects a little southern Italian pizzazz into their dishes. I sit on the little patio and peruse the menu.

I think I’ve made my selection — homemade ravioli with black truffles — when my server turns the page. “But did you see the white truffle menu? We have some of the first white truffles of the season.” Ah, the elusive “Queen of the Truffles,” freshly unearthed by some clever Istrian mutts. The menu is basically identical to the black truffle menu, but each price is around $8 to $10 higher. That’s a lot to spend on fragrant fungus. But how can I resist? After all, it’s Truffle Day. Homemade ravioli with white truffles it is.

As the sky fades from pink to deep blue, the plate of pasta arrives, and a precious lobe of white truffle is grated on top, before my eyes. The ravioli is stuffed with a mix of spinach, celery, and cauliflower, and if anything, it’s a little underseasoned. But this may be intentional: The preparation allows the truffles to really take center stage. These white truffles are noticeably different from the black truffles at lunch: Extraordinarily earthy, almost nutty. Subtler, yet somehow also more pungent. Like a fine Belgian praline instead of a Hershey bar.

After the meal, I roll down the hill to my car and drive through the inky Istrian night back to Rovinj. It’s been a very, very good Truffle Day indeed. But, if I’m being honest, when I head to Slovenia tomorrow…I may be ready for a little truffle detox.

━━
This post was published in 2018.

Posted on

10 European Discoveries for 2018

My Christmas tree is out at the curb, which means it’s time to start planning 2018 travels. This year, I hope to visit some big-name destinations — maybe Madrid, maybe Amsterdam, maybe Prague? But as I reflect on recent trips, I’m struck by how many favorite travel memories have taken place in Europe’s underappreciated corners. As your travel dreams take shape for 2018, consider peppering your itinerary with a few off-the-beaten-path discoveries — the sorts of places that Rick Steves, decades ago, dubbed “Back Doors.” Here are 10 of my current favorites.

 

Lake Mývatn Area, Iceland

Driving around the perimeter of Iceland on the 800-mile Ring Road this summer (working on our upcoming Rick Steves Iceland guidebook), I binged on an unceasing stream of cinematic landscapes. But what sticks with me most vividly is the region surrounding Lake Mývatn, a geological hotspot that straddles the European and North American tectonic plates. Birds love this dreamy lake, as do the swarms of microscopic midges (for whom the lake is named) that invade the nostrils and mouths of summertime visitors. But the bugs are easy enough to ignore as you explore the lakeshore’s volcanic terrain — from the “pseudocraters” (gigantic burst bubbles of molten rock) at Skútustaðir, to the forest of jagged lava pillars at Dimmuborgir, to the climbable volcanic cone at Hverfjall. And the thermal fun crescendos just to the east: the delightful Mývatn Thermal Baths (the lowbrow, half-price alternative to the famous Blue Lagoon), the volcanic valley at Kralfa (with a steaming geothermal power plant), and the bubbling, hissing field at Námafjall (pictured above). Stepping out of my car at Námafjall, I plugged my nose against the suffocating sulfur vapors and wandered, slack-jawed, across an otherworldly landscape of vivid-yellow sands, bubbling gray ponds, and piles of rocks steaming like furious teakettles. Many visitors drop into Iceland for just a few days, and stick close to Reykjavik — which is a good plan, if you’re in a rush. But the opportunity to linger in Mývatn (about a six-hour drive from Reykjavík) may be reason enough to extend your trip by a few days…and turn your stopover into a full-blown road trip.

 

Sarlat Market Day, Dordogne, France

Of all the delightful activities I’ve enjoyed in France, my favorite remains the lazy Saturday morning I spent wandering the market stalls in the town of Sarlat. Rickety tables groaned with oversized wheels of mountain cheese, tidy little stacks of salamis, cans of foie gras and duck confit, and a cornucopia of fresh produce. Market day in rural and small-town France isn’t just a chance to stock up — it’s a social institution, where neighbors mix and mingle, and where consumers forge lasting relationships with their favorite producers. And when the market wraps up, even before the sales kiosks are folded up and stowed, al fresco café tables overflow with weary shoppers catching up with their friends. While Sarlat is my favorite market (and my favorite little town in France), you can have a similar experience anywhere in the country; I’ve also enjoyed memorable market days in Uzès (Provence), Beaune (Burgundy), St-Jean-de-Luz (Basque Country), and even in Paris. Just research the local jour de marché schedule, wherever you’re going in France, and make time for one or two. And when you get there…. Actually. Slow. Down. Throw away your itinerary for a morning. Become a French villager with an affinity for quality ingredients. Browse the goods. Get picky. And assemble the French picnic of your dreams.

 

Ruin Pubs, Budapest, Hungary

I must admit, I’m not really a “nightlife guy.” But when I’m in Budapest, I budget extra time to simply wander the lively streets of the Seventh District — just behind the Great Synagogue, in the heart of the city — and drop into a variety of “ruin pubs.” A ruin pub is a uniquely Budapest invention (though these days, it’s been copied by hipster entrepreneurs everywhere): Find a ramshackle, crumbling, borderline-condemned old building. Fill its courtyard with mismatched furniture and twinkle lights. And serve up a fun variety of drinks, from basic beers to twee cocktails to communist-kitsch sodas for nostalgic fortysomethings. The Seventh District — the former Jewish Quarter, and for decades a wasteland of dilapidated townhouses — gave root to ruin pubs several years back. And today, tucked between the synagogues and kosher shops are dozens of ruin pubs, each one with its own personality. While you could link up a variety of the big-name ruin pubs (and my self-guided “Ruin Pub Crawl” in the Rick Steves Budapest guidebook does exactly that), the best plan may simply be to explore Kazinczy street and find the place that suits your mood.

 

Julian Alps, Slovenia

This gorgeous corner of my favorite country has always been high on my personal “must list.” It’s a little slice of heaven: Cut-glass alpine peaks tower over fine little Baroque-steepled towns, all laced together by an eerily turquoise river. While this place should be overrun with crowds, on my latest visit — in late September — I had the place nearly to myself. A few A+ travelers have begun to find their way to the “sunny side of the Alps”: Rafters, kayakers, and adventure sports fanatics are drawn to the sparkling waters of the Soča River. Historians peruse the well-curated array of outdoor museums and cemeteries from World War I’s Isonzo Front, where Ernest Hemingway famously drove an ambulance. Skiers gape up at the 660-foot-tall jump at Planica, home to the world championships of ski flying (for daredevils who consider ski jumping for wimps). And foodies make a pilgrimage to Hiša Franko, the world-class restaurant of Ana Roš — a self-trained Slovenian chef who was profiled on Netflix’s Chef’s Table, and was named the World’s Best Female Chef 2017. (I recently enjoyed a fantastic dinner at Hiša Franko, and was tickled to be greeted by Ana herself, who took my coat and showed me to my table.) As a bonus, the Julian Alps pair perfectly with a visit to northern Italy: On my latest trip, I spent the morning hiking on alpine trails and exploring antique WWI trenches carved into the limestone cliffs, had lunch immersed in the pastoral beauty of Slovenia’s Goriška Brda wine region (also egregiously overlooked), then hopped on the freeway and was cruising the canals of Venice well before dinnertime.

 

Vigeland Park, Oslo, Norway

My favorite piece of art in Europe isn’t a painting, and it isn’t in a museum. It’s a park — a grassy canvas where a single artist, the early-20th-century sculptor Gustav Vigeland, was given carte blanche to design and decorate as he saw fit. The city of Oslo gave Vigeland a big studio, and turned him loose in the adjoining park for 20 years. He filled that space with a sprawling yet harmonious ensemble of 600 bronze and granite figures, representing every emotion and rite of passage in the human experience, all frozen in silent conversation with each other — and with the steady stream of Oslo urbanites and tourists who flow through Vigeland’s masterpiece. The naked figures (which might provoke giggles among prudish Americans) reinforce the sense of timelessness and universality: They belong not to any one time or place, but to every time and every place — from Adam and Eve to contemporary Norway. Over the last decade and a half, I’ve been to Vigeland Park three times. Each time, I was in a totally different state of mind. And each time, the statues spoke to me like old friends — sometimes with the same old message, and sometimes with new insights. With all due respect to da Vinci, Van Gogh, and Picasso, no single artistic experience in Europe is more meaningful or impactful to me than Vigeland Park.

 

Sarajevo, Bosnia-Herzegovina

Sarači #16 is the most interesting address in downtown Sarajevo. Facing east — toward the Ottoman-era old town, Baščaršija — you’re transported to medieval Turkey: a bustling bazaar with slate-roofed houses, chunky river-stone cobbles, the tap-tap-tap of coppersmiths’ hammers, and a pungent haze of hookah smoke and grilled meats. Then, turning to the west, you’re peering down Ferhadija, the main thoroughfare of Habsburg Sarajevo. This could be a Vienna suburb, where stern, genteel Baroque facades look down over cafés teeming with urbanites. Within a few short blocks of this spot stand the city’s historic synagogue, its oldest Serbian Orthodox church, its Catholic cathedral, and its showcase mosque. Few places on earth are so layered with history. And then there’s the latest chapter: the poignant story of the Siege of Sarajevo in the mid-1990s, when the town was surrounded by snipers for more than 1,400 days — connected to the outside world only by a muck-filled tunnel and a steep mountain ascent. Proud Sarajevans you’ll meet are often willing, or even eager, to share their stories of living a horrific reality that we experienced only through the Nightly News. And if you’re lucky, they’ll invite you for a cup of Bosnian coffee — and explain why it’s integral to their worldview and their social life. Many travelers do a strategic side-trip from Croatia to the town of Mostar — a good first taste of Bosnia, but what I consider “Bosnia with training wheels.” But for the full Bosnian experience, I’d invest another day or two and delve a couple of hours deeper into the country…to Sarajevo.

 

Val d’Orcia, Tuscany, Italy

Of all of Tuscany’s appealing corners, the Val d’Orcia (“val dor-chah”) is — for me — the most enchanting. While just a short drive from the tourist throngs in Florence, San Gimignano, Siena, or the Chianti region, the Val d’Orcia — bookended by the charming towns of Montepulciano and Montalcino (both synonymous with fine Tuscan wine) — feels like a peaceful, overlooked eddy of rural life. This strip of land is where most of the iconic “Tuscany scenery” photographs are taken: Winding, cypress-lined driveways; vibrant-green, rolling farm fields that look like a circa-2000 screensaver; and lonely chapels perched on verdant ridges. And it’s the backdrop for famous scenes in everything from The English Patient to Gladiator to Master of None. And yet, the area has no “major sights” — no sculptures by Michelangelo, no paintings by da Vinci, no leaning towers — which, mercifully, keeps it just beyond the itineraries of whistle-stop, bucket-list tourists. I have savored several visits — including a particularly memorable Thanksgiving week with family — settling into my favorite agriturismo, Cretaiole, in the heart of the Val d’Orica. And every moment of every trip lives on as a mental postcard: Making fresh pasta. Sawing into a deliciously rare slab of Chianina beef T-bone. Following a truffle-hunting dog as it sniffs its way through an oak forest. And on and on. If you have a day to spare between Rome and Florence, don’t go to the Val d’Orcia. But if you have several days to really delve into the best of Tuscany…let’s talk.

 

Psyrri Neighborhood, Athens, Greece

A few years removed from the depths of its economic crisis, Athens has re-emerged as a red-hot destination. Revisiting the city a few months ago, I was struck by how many tourists I saw — and by how many of them refused to venture beyond the cutesy, crowded Plaka zone that rings the base of the Acropolis. And that’s a shame, because literally across the street  from the Plaka’s central square, Monastiraki, is one of Athens’ most colorful and fun-to-explore neighborhoods: Psyrri (“psee-ree”). Not long ago, this was a deserted and dangerous slum. But recently, Psyrri has emerged as a trendy dining and nightlife zone. Its graffiti-slathered apartment blocks now blossom with freshly remodeled Airbnb rentals. This still-gritty area may feel a little foreboding at first, but if you can get past the street art, grime, and motorbikes parked on potholed sidewalks, it’s easy to enjoy the hipster soul of the neighborhood that’s leading many to dub Athens “The New Berlin.” For the upcoming fifth edition of our Rick Steves Greece guidebook, Psyrri inspired me to write a brand-new, food-and-street-art-themed self-guided walk chapter. In just a few blocks, between the Plaka and the thriving Central Market, you can stop in for nibbles and sips of sesame-encrusted dough rings (koulouri), delicate phyllo-custard pastry (bougatsa), deep-fried donuts (loukoumades), anise-flavored ouzo liquor, and unfiltered “Greek coffee.” If you’re going to Athens, break free of the Plaka rut, walk five minutes away from the hovering Parthenon, and sample this accessible, authentic slice of urban Greek life.

 

Moscow, Russia

On my last visit to Moscow, in the summer of 2014, Russia was in the news: military action in Crimea and eastern Ukraine, Putin’s brutal crackdown on homosexuality and punk-rock protesters Pussy Riot, and the recently completed Sochi Olympics. Of course, since then, the headlines have changed, but Russia is in the news more than ever. That’s why I consider Moscow to be Europe’s most fascinating — and challenging — destination. People back home shake their heads and wonder: How can these people support Putin, who (to us) is so clearly a demagogue? I take that not as a rhetorical question, but as a genuine one that deserves a real answer. And a thoughtful visit to Moscow — even “just” as a casual tourist — can offer some insights. Designed-to-intimidate Red Square and the Kremlin fill onlookers with awe and respect. The still-standing headstone of Josef Stalin — tucked along the Kremlin Wall, just behind Lenin’s Tomb and its waxy occupant — seems to suggest that the Russian appetite for absolute rulers is nothing new. But mostly, I’m struck by the improvements I see in Moscow with each return visit. On my first trip, in the early 2000s, the famous Gorky Park was a ramshackle, potholed mess, and the Cathedral of Christ the Savior — which had been demolished by communist authorities — was still being rebuilt. But today, Gorky Park is a lush, pristine, manicured people zone, and the sunshine glitters off the cathedral’s rebuilt golden dome. Just up the river, a Shanghai-style forest of futuristic skyscrapers rises up from a onetime industrial wasteland. In short, the Russian capital — which has always been interesting — is now actually a pleasant place to travel. Finding myself really enjoying Moscow, for the first time, makes it easier to imagine how many Russians might be convinced that Putin is Making Russia Great Again.

 

Orkney Islands, Scotland

Cameron Scotland Orkney Old Man of HoyI traveled all over Scotland a couple of summers ago, working on the Rick Steves Scotland guidebook. And the most intriguing place I visited had nothing to do with kilts, bagpipes, or moody glens: the archipelago of Orkney, barely visible from Britain’s northernmost point at John o’ Groats. This flat, mossy island feels far from what I think of as “Scotland.” For most of its history, it was a Norse trading outpost, rather than a clan stronghold. And today it remains a world apart. Five-thousand-year-old stone circles and rows point the way to prehistoric subterranean settlements. The main town, Kirkwall, has a quirky tradition for a no-holds-barred, town-wide annual rugby match, and a fascinating-to-tour church. And you can still drive across the “Churchill Barriers,” installed by Sir Winston after a Nazi U-Boat snuck into the famous harbor called Scapa Flow and blew up a British warship. But my favorite sight is the Italian Chapel: a drab wartime hut transformed into a delicate, ethereal Catholic chapel by Italian POWs who were allowed to improvise the decor from whatever materials they could scavenge. While Orkney takes some effort to reach, it’s worthwhile for the unique and captivating sightseeing it affords. (To get the most out of your time on Orkney, book a tour with Kinlay at Orkney Uncovered.)

Where are you headed in 2018?