Smaller text Larger text

Cameron’s Travels

My co-author and frequent collaborator, Cameron Hewitt, is well-traveled, smart, and insightful. And, while he and I are in perfect sync in our travel styles and priorities, he gives voice to the next generation of "Rick Steves travelers." Join me in enjoying his reports right here. —Rick

Posted on

Dining at Europe’s Foodie Splurge Restaurants: A Practical Guide

These days, more and more travelers are investing serious time and money in top-end fine-dining experiences across Europe. And on a few special occasions, I’ve jumped on this bandwagon — spending more on a meal than my hotel room cost.

I proudly consider myself a foodie. But I define “foodie” broadly: I’m simply someone who considers food an integral part of any culture — and any travel experience. On the other hand, I’m also thrifty, so splurging on a fancy meal doesn’t come naturally to me. I strongly believe that “foodie” doesn’t have to mean “expensive.” Some of my favorite culinary experiences in Europe have come with the lowest price tags, from grazing on street food in Palermo to my €25 day in Ljubljana.

And yet, a fine-dining extravaganza certainly deserves a place on the spectrum of foodie experiences. Here’s one traveler’s take on what it’s actually like to dine at a world-rated restaurant — designed to help you decide whether that experience deserves your time and money.

Finding, Booking, and Dining at High-End Splurges

Part of the fun of fine dining is doing your homework — figuring out which place deserves your splurge budget. I’m a devotee of Netflix’s exquisite food documentary series Chef’s Table — and after every episode, I’m ready to book a plane ticket. (Documentary Now! — also streaming on Netflix — did a genius parody of this type of foodie tourism.) And the Restaurant Magazine 50 Best Restaurants list has — among a younger generation of foodies — eclipsed Michelin stars as an indicator of the world’s best (or, at least, buzziest) eateries. Learning about a restaurant through these sources can make booking and anticipating a reservation a highlight of your trip preparation.

But that’s the first trick: Getting a table. Restaurants that are really hot book up many months in advance. If you have a place in mind, as soon as your dates firm up, check their website for the reservation policy. Many release blocks of reservations two to three months in advance  — and once they’re gone, they’re gone. It’s not unusual for foodies to set an alarm for midnight Copenhagen time, three months to the day before their visit, to try to book that elusive table.

So, your table is booked, and you’re ready to drop $200 per person on (what had better be) a life-altering culinary experience. If you’re like me, you may need to spend a little time rationalizing that high price tag. I’m not going to pretend I’m some sort of a bumpkin, but I must admit, until a few years ago, I was skeptical about fine dining. For a long time, I believed that once you reach a certain cost threshold for an upper-midrange restaurant (say, $40 or $50 a person), how could it really get that much better? At a certain point, you’re just throwing good money after bad. But a few recent dining experiences have changed my thinking.

On a trip to the Basque Country in northern Spain, my wife and I booked a table at what was, at the time, the “16th top-rated restaurant in the world,” Azurmendi. Driving through the verdant Basque hills to our midday reservation, we were debating whether lunch for two could really be worth a total tab of over $300 and several hours of our precious Spanish vacation.

But when we walked in the door, we began to understand that when you go to a world-rated restaurant, it’s not just a meal — it’s an experience. If you conceptualize this meal as part of your “food budget,” it’s outlandish. But if you think of it as an “experience”…well, that may be justifiable. We’ve spent $300 on other experiences in our travels, and felt it was a good value: prime tickets for a hit musical on Broadway or the West End, or a home playoff game for my beloved Denver Broncos, or a live concert of a huge-name musical act, or a sightseeing flight through Slovenia’s Julian Alps. And in an age where chefs are attaining celebrity at a level on par with rock stars and athletes…well, that’s what splurging is for.

As we arrived for our reservation at Azurmendi, we were invited into the leafy conservatory and given a little picnic basket filled with creative amuses-bouche.

Then, in the greenhouse, they showed us where some of the herbs and produce were grown; more amuses-bouche were creatively tucked among the plantings.

Then they took us into the busy kitchen, where an army of chefs and cooks — outnumbering the diners — were scurrying around with great precision, directed by the confident chef, Eneko Atxa. Observing this controlled hubbub, we were offered yet another amuse-bouche.

About 30 minutes and a light meal after we’d arrived, we were finally shown to our table. The rest of the meal was a fine experience, and taken together, that’s just what it was: an experience. I’ll admit it’s not The Best Meal I’ve Ever Eaten, but it was certainly one of the most interesting and entertaining.

Chef Atxa elevates Basque cuisine to an astonishing degree. Each dish was an adventure…an experiment in intensely focused flavor. Cauliflower, fried eggs, and truffle, composed like a surrealist painting. Natural spider crab, emulsion, and infusion — a super-concentrated taste of the sea that left my mouth tingling for several courses. Slightly spicy fried suckling pig and three Basque cheeses in three textures, which was…exactly as described.

Leaving the restaurant, we agreed that — assuming travel is worthy of the occasional splurge — it was $150 per person well-spent. And we certainly remember it more vividly than any other meal on that trip.

My favorite fine-dining experience took place in the remote Slovenian countryside, at Hiša Franko, owned by 2017’s highest-rated female chef in the world, Ana Roš. Ana was profiled on Chef’s Table, which we watched not once but twice before eating there. Imagine our delight when we walked in the door for our reservation, and there stood Ana herself at the maître d’ station. She took our coats, showed us to our table, and brought us bread, while we stuttered our greetings, star-struck and tongue-tied.

But that was just the beginning of a marvelous dining experience. Ana Roš lacks the theatricality of Azurmendi…but she doesn’t need it. It sounds like a cliché from a cooking-competition TV show, but over the course of her degustation menu, she achieved what every great chef aspires to: Through her food, she told a story about herself, and about the place she comes from. The progression of dishes felt like journeying through the pastures, rivers, and mountains of the Slovenian countryside all around us. Her food tasted like Slovenia. Her food could only be rooted in that place, and could only have been made by her. It was a culinary revelation the likes of which I have never had before, or since. And that’s why — for me, at least — it’s worth it.

Fine Dining for Dummies

I’m still new enough to this fine-dining scene to find its customs quirky and fascinating. If you haven’t experienced a fine-dining restaurant, let me walk through what to expect — tongue planted firmly in cheek.

On arrival, you’ll be greeted warmly and seated. Your purse even gets its own little stool. Everything operates with exacting precision, yet the pacing and atmosphere are insistently relaxed.

You’ll be handed a menu, but normally that’s something of a ruse. The choice is simple: Do you want the smaller tasting menu, the bigger tasting menu, or — at the finest places — the gargantuan tasting menu? I’ve never ordered anything but the smallest option, and I’ve never waddled out of a fine-dining restaurant anything short of full-to-bursting. I imagine the full-blown option would require serious consideration of the “boot and rally” strategy.

In addition to your food, you can choose whether to add the wine pairings. And if you’re going to commit to a top-end meal, just go ahead and do the wine pairings. A good, mid- to upper-mid-range restaurant stocks a nice variety of local wines, and the server can help you narrow down a glass or bottle to your taste. Well all know the rules of thumb: red wine for beef, white wine for fish. But a fine-dining restaurant takes things to an entirely different level. Your sommelier is a master at meticulously pairing wines to the nuances of each course, in a way that’s mutually beneficial to both wine and food. When properly paired, it’s nothing short of astonishing to take a sip of wine, then take a bite of food, then take another sip of wine — and see how much both flavors have changed.

The meal begins with a tiny appetizer called an amuse-bouche, which loosely translates as “palate stimulator.” (The plural is — and yes, I looked this up — amuses-bouche, which may be the most perfectly pretentious word I have ever come across.) The amuse-bouche is a sort of culinary overture — the chef is firing a warning shot across your taste buds about what’s to come. It’s a clever way for a talented chef to show off, while sneakily doubling the number of courses. While low-end high-end restaurants greet you with one amuse-bouche, the fanciest ones trot out a progression of a half-dozen or more.

By the time you make it through all of the amuses-bouche, you’re pretty much full. And then it’s time for the first course. Don’t worry — these meals usually span over three hours, sometimes four, so by the time the main courses arrive you’ll already have digested most of your amuses-bouche. Still…pace yourself, come hungry, and wear your roomy “Thanksgiving pants.”

Speaking of pacing yourself, let’s talk about the bread: Don’t fill up by gobbling the bread the moment it hits the table. This seems painfully obvious. However, it’s far more difficult than it sounds, because at a great restaurant, the bread is fiendishly delicious — spongy and warm inside, crusty and slightly charred outside. It is not an exaggeration to say that at more than one of the high-end meals I’ve had, the bread was one of the best dishes to hit the table. So we’re in agreement: Go ahead and eat some of the bread. Just…pace yourself, OK?

There will be a progression of courses. Sometimes you’ll have a list to follow along; other times, you’ll just take it as it comes. With each course, your server has prepared a brief lecture, explaining the ingredients, provenance, and technique represented. Cloches will be lifted with great ceremony, billowing rich-smelling smoke, and little teapots of broth will be poured over the dish at the last moment. Wait patiently until you’re sure it’s done. Then, only after she walks away, it’s safe to dig in.

A word about your server: You’re spending a lot of time together. And, without realizing it, you’ll slowly grow to be very fond of your server. He’s not just bringing you food, and scraping your crumbs off the table, and changing out your silverware from a little tray before each course, and deftly picking up your napkin with two forks held like chopsticks. He is your partner, your guide, your sherpa in this culinary adventure. He is your wingman.

You will like some of the courses. You will not love some of the courses. That’s OK. These chefs are in the business of pleasing, surprising, and sometimes challenging their diners. Barring real allergies or vegetarianism, I have an ethic of going along with whatever’s on the menu. In the hands of Ana Roš, even a raviolo filled with goat brain puree is unexpectedly delicious. Personally, I am not a fan of foie gras or sea urchin. (Yes, I realize this admission is severely damaging to my foodie street cred. What can I say? The taste buds want what the taste buds want.) But if a great chef wants to prepare it for me, I will try it.  And I will usually love it…usually.

As an aside, a phrase that I don’t hear nearly enough in everyday life is: “And now, we have an intermezzo before the final main course.”

Again, pace yourself. Thanksgiving pants. And, by the way, where does one buy one of those little crumb combs for the tablecloth?

At some point, probably late in the meal, the chef will appear from the kitchen and begin circulating among tables of star-struck foodies. This is like getting a backstage pass for a Springsteen concert. If you are familiar with the chef, be prepared to get flustered and say something stupid…or to stammer dumbly, saying nothing at all. If you have been dragged to this meal by a foodie spouse or relative, you will have no idea why this is such a big deal.

No matter how good the meal is, there is a moment of relief and accomplishment when you realize that you have finished the final main course. You made it! It’s all downhill from here. You always have room for dessert. (I have a relative who insists that, no matter how full she is from dinner, she has a separate “dessert stomach” that is always empty. You will need it.)

Another phrase I don’t hear nearly enough in everyday life is: “And this is a little pre-dessert…”

There is probably not one dessert, by the way. There are probably two, or three, or four.

And then, when you think you’re really finished, here comes yet more desserts: a tray of little sweets, sometimes accompanying coffee. They call these “petits-fours,” which is misleading, because there are usually more like six or seven.

So, if you’re keeping track — and if you count all of the little amuses-bouche and petits-fours and intermezzi, and, of course, that heavenly bread — a “five- or six-course meal” can be more like 20 or 25 different dishes. That’s worth some consideration in the big-picture analysis of whether it’s a good value.

When it’s all over, you’ll manage to disguise your shock when you glance at the bill, then pay it happily. That server that you have forged a bond with over the last three hours?  She’ll be getting an American-sized tip, if not a weepy goodbye hug. Then you’ll head out the door, somewhere between a waddle and a teeter (depending on whether you did the wine pairings).

So… Is It Worth It?

At the end of the day, that’s the real question, isn’t it? Can any meal really be worth such a huge investment?

My short answer: Yes. The longer answer: It depends…on the restaurant, and on the diner.

If you are a person who prioritizes food, in your life and especially in your travels…it’s probably worth it. If you can name more than five celebrity chefs (Guy Fieri doesn’t count)…it’s probably worth it. If you can conceptualize your meal as a “travel experience” rather than “food” (in the same wedge of the imaginary budget pie as scenic picnics and ice-cream cones)…well, then, it’s probably worth it.

If none of these applies to you, then maybe you should skip it. But don’t rule it out. Remember that ultimate foodie meal I enjoyed at Ana Roš’ Hiša Franko in Slovenia? My wife and I dragged my in-laws to that one. They were skeptical, but game to give it a try. And by the end of the meal, they were raving about the experience even more than we were. They even liked the goat brain puree.

If, on the other hand, you simply can’t afford it, that’s OK. Remember that there are reasonably priced alternatives. Again, “foodie” does not have to mean “expensive.”

…Or….you could just stay in hostels, and let your taste buds travel first class.

Posted on

See You at the Air Show: A Not-So-Glamorous Day in the Life of a Travel Writer

My wife’s Great-Great-Aunt Mildred traveled far and wide, long before such a thing was fashionable. Late in life, Aunt Mildred wrote a memoir about her experiences. The title: Jams Are Fun. It turns out that, 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 part of my “Jams Are Fun” series about when good trips turn bad, and the journey is better for it, takes place in the Middle-of-Nowhere, Czech Republic.

As a travel writer, I pride myself on coming up with creative solutions to vexing itinerary challenges. It’s a fun problem-solving exercise. But sometimes, things just don’t pan out.

On a recent guidebook-research trip through Eastern Europe, I wanted to drive my rental car from Prague to Kraków, with some countryside stops along the way. However, the international drop-off fees for going between the Czech Republic and Poland were prohibitively high. I was mightily pleased with myself to come up with a clever plan: I’d drop my car at an obscure little airport on the outskirts of the small city of Ostrava, just a 30-minute drive from the Polish border. And then, for the second part (and masterstroke) of my plan, my Polish driver friend, Andrew, would come pick me and bring me the rest of the way to Kraków, with some sightseeing stops en route. Brilliant! What could go wrong?

Excitedly, I emailed Andrew to set up the plan. He was totally game. By the way, Andrew Durman is a prince of a guy and one of my favorite Polish people. I’ve recommended him in our Rick Steves Eastern Europe guidebook for years, and he’s provided hundreds — maybe thousands — of our readers with a warm welcome and a worry-free side-trips to outlying sights, or even scouring the Polish countryside in search of their family roots. When I brought my Chicago-area Dabrowski cousins to Kraków several years ago, it was Andrew who piled us into his van, drove us deep into pig-farming country, and translated our conversations with our newly discovered, long-lost Polish cousins. I always think of Andrew as my honorary Polish uncle.

The day of our big meetup arrived. And as I left the charming little Moravian village of Štramberk en route to the airport, I was feeling pretty smug about how well this was going to go. I love it when a plan comes together! Strangely, my GPS was showing the drive to the airport at more than double the 20 minutes I had expected. Hm. Must be a glitch.

Except…it was no glitch. After a few minutes, I ran into a long column of backed-up traffic, inexplicably jamming the remote country road. I bailed out and went looking for an alternate route. But that one was backed up, too. And the next one. And the next one.

And that’s when I heard the jet engines.

A fighter jet went screaming overhead. And then another one. And it slowly dawned on me that this was no random traffic jam. I crawled past a billboard and slowly deciphered its Czech message: “Air…Force Days…Saturday…September 20.” Wait, that’s…that’s…well, that’s today.

According to its website, the NATO Days in Ostrava and the Czech Air Force Days are “the biggest security show in all of Europe.” And I’m quoting here: “The main program, taking place at Ostrava Leoš Janáček Airport, consists of presentation of heavy military hardware, police and rescue equipment, dynamic displays of special forces’ training, flying displays, and presentations of armaments, equipment, and gear of individual units…the most-visited two-day family event in the Czech Republic.”

And so, I had scheduled a rendezvous at what I imagined to be a deserted regional airport on the very day it was hosting 200,000 visitors from all over Europe.

I called Andrew, who had figured out what was going on right around the time I did. “Hello Cameron! I have been sitting still in traffic for 20 minutes. What do you want to do?”

I had to drop off this car at this airport, before crossing into Poland. I had no choice (other than, perhaps, driving myself three hours to Kraków, then driving back three hours tomorrow to return the car, then finding a ride for the three hours back to Kraków). By hook or by crook, Andrew and I had to figure out some way to meet up…and leave this car behind.

Andrew and I — coming from opposite directions — inched toward each other and the airport, periodically calling each other to track progress. I called the rental car office and said, “I’m trying to get to the airport to drop off my car.” Nonplussed, the bored agent replied, “Oh. You know, there’s an air show today.”

As I got closer to the airport, Andrew called me to say he’d parked his car, and was walking back to direct me to the terminal. I pulled over to the side of the road and went looking for him. By this time, the air show was in full swing, with military jets doing their eardrum-piercing loop-de-loops overhead. We might as well have been on the deck of an aircraft carrier on family visit day. Employing a kind of surreal doppler radar, Andrew and I followed the deafening sound of jet engines through each other’s cell phones to triangulate our way closer and closer to each other. Finally, Andrew came into view, far down the road, and we greeted each other with a big, fraternal, Polish bear hug.

Andrew hopped in my car and said, “I told the cops up there what’s going on. He said you can just ignore all of the ‘no entry’ signs and drive up to the terminal anyway.” Gingerly, I navigated my car between throngs of aviation enthusiasts, and — with Andrew’s encouragement — drove the wrong way down a one-way service road. Approaching the police checkpoint, Andrew looked a little concerned. “Hm. That guy I talked to earlier isn’t here.” He hopped out of the car and, after a very animated conversation, told me it was OK to proceed. And so, by some miracle, we got the car back to the rental office.

We hiked a half-mile back to Andrew’s car, occasionally peering up to see the warplanes swirl overhead. By the time we reached the car, traffic had cleared out, and we zipped across the border and headed for Kraków. By the time we pulled up to my hotel — hours later than planned — Andrew and I were already laughing about our impromptu visit to Europe’s biggest air show.

If you savor the Schadenfreude of hearing about good trips gone bad, check out the other posts in my “Jams Are Fun” series.

How about that time I was stuck on a cruise ship during a massive storm in the North Sea?

Or that time I got pulled over by keystone kops in a remote corner of Bosnia?

Or, really, the entire experience of driving in Sicily.

Aunt Mildred was right: Jams are fun, indeed. What’s your favorite travel jam?

Posted on

40 Hours in Amsterdam: A Travel Writer’s Layover

What does a travel writer do on his day off? He just putters around Amsterdam, without an agenda, enjoying travel in its purest form. (And then, surprise surprise, he writes a blog post about it.)

That’s just what I’m doing on the way home from my guidebook research trip. After two busy weeks in Spain, and three even busier weeks in Sicily, I’m ready for a break. So, I figured, why not take a two-night, one-day layover in Amsterdam on my way home? That gives me exactly 40 hours to reacquaint myself with a great city.

There’s something liberating about returning to a city where you’ve already seen all the big sights. This isn’t a post about how to squeeze the Rijksmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, the Anne Frank House, and a canal cruise into a hectic day of sightseeing. Instead, this is a post about how you can have a wonderful visit to Amsterdam, simply exploring neighborhoods that are missed by most visitors — entirely avoiding the tourist core, and never stepping through a turnstile. When a travel writer finally gets to turn off his data-collection feature, he finds himself simply going on a photo safari, strolling, browsing, and grazing. (Side-note: When I tell certain people I’m spending a couple of nights in Amsterdam to unwind after a busy research trip, I get a lot of knowing winks and rib jabs. “Yeah, I’ll bet!” But, in all honesty, I have zero interest in the illicit activities that are uniquely legal here. I just love Amsterdam. My friends back home will  back me up on this: I am a total square.)

Thursday Night

Arriving at my lovely splurge of a canalside hotel, Hotel Ambassade, around 9 p.m., I’m ready for dinner. I want something close, and something different — a change of pace after my steady three-week diet of pasta, seafood, granite, and Sicilian spleen sandwiches. Fortunately, right around the corner is one of Amsterdam’s top upmarket Indonesian restaurants, serving flavorful cuisine from the former Dutch colony. Kantjil & De Tijger, along the busy Spui corridor, is a once-trendy restaurant that has settled into its status as a reliable standard. Sitting outside as the sky gradually darkens at 10 p.m., I dig into the nasi rames — a one-plate sampler of flavorful Indonesian dishes, including sambal goreng kentang (shrimp and potatoes with spicy sambal paste), rendang (beef simmered in a sauce of coconut and spices), and saté babi (pork kebab). After dinner, I go hunting for bridges strewn with twinkle lights, reflected in a glassy canal. And, sure enough, I find some.

Friday Morning

While Amsterdam has a booming brunch scene, I stick with the excellent breakfast at my hotel —  reasonably priced when prebooked as part of the room rate. There’s no better start to a drizzly day than relaxing over made-to-order eggs and crêpes while gazing out over the picturesque Herengracht canal.

Leaving my hotel, I dodge wayward bicycles through a gentle rain, going nowhere in particular. I wind up following the exclamatory steeple of the Westerkerk, where I duck inside to avoid a sudden squall. The tranquil interior is filled with simple pews and soaked, poncho-clad tourists rubbing raindrops off their eyeglasses. The austere space is the polar opposite of the dazzlingly ornate Baroque churches in Sicily and Spain, where I’ve spent the last several weeks. Of course, as this was one of the flagship churches of the Dutch Reformation, that was exactly the point. Even the fancy organ has “modesty covers” that can swing shut to conceal its naughty pipes. Hiding out from the rain in this church, whose bells Anne Frank heard from her hiding place in the building next door, I’m reminded again why Amsterdam is such a delight.

I head back outside and circle around the church, following the gaze of a sweet little statue of Anne Frank to the Wil Graanstra Friteshuis, a handy spot for Vlaamse frites — Flemish fries, double-fried and served with a variety of sauces. I’m tempted to order a greasy cone of fries, but the rain picks up again, so I dash across the street and duck into one of the city’s ubiquitous Albert Heijn mini-supermarkets. Browsing with no intention of buying, I come across a display of make-it-yourself meal kits for mexicaanse burritos, italiaanse lasagne, and indiase curry madras…a clever Dutch spin on America’s current obsession with Blue Apron-type mail-order meal kits. I love stumbling on little slices of local life, even when I’m just trying to stay dry.

From Westerkerk, I delve into my favorite part of Amsterdam: the Jordaan. While this might seem like shameless product placement, I really do enjoy touring the Jordaan using the excellent audio tour on the Rick Steves Audio Europe app — taking me through this sleepy, photogenic, formerly working-class neighborhood where Amsterdammers still outnumber tourists. Rick and my colleague (and favorite writer) Gene Openshaw wrote the tour years ago, and it still holds up — offering an intimate look at a corner of Amsterdam most tourists miss entirely.

Friday Lunch

The rain begins to let up, and I head back toward the core of the city. A sudden sun break reminds me it’s actually summer, and I’m in the mood for an al fresco lunch…raindrops be damned. I make my way to Café t’Smalle, a classic wood-paneled “brown café” — a characteristic old Dutch pub whose walls are stained by decades (or centuries) of tobacco smoke. While the seating inside is traditional and cozy, I’m lured to the tipsy tables on a barge in the canal out front. It’s an ideal spot to canal-watch and munch a simple sandwich of aged Dutch cheese, shielded from the occasional fat raindrop by a generous canopy of leaves.

Heading south after lunch, I follow the Prinsengracht canal to dessert at IJscuypje, a local chain of ice cream shops. Flavors include the usual suspects, plus Dutch variations like stroopwafels (syrup waffles), boerenjongens (brandy-soaked raisins), and speculaas (gingerbread cookies). Biting into my speculaas cone, I remember one of the most mind-blowing discoveries in my many years of travels: that morning at my Amsterdam B&B breakfast table when I learned that they smash ginger cookies into an insanely decadent and delicious paste…and that I can buy it anytime I want, back home, where Trader Joe’s sells it under the name “Cookie Butter.” Soon after I got home, I learned a hard lesson: If you ever really want to put on some weight — and fast! — develop a taste for Cookie Butter. In this city notorious for its addictive vices, the one that really did me in involves gingerbread cookies.

Friday Afternoon

From the Prinsengracht, I go on a little aimless safari through another of the city’s most characteristically Amsterdam areas, the “Nine Little Streets” — a checkerboard of shop-lined, perfectly Dutch lanes connecting the Prinsengracht, Keizsergracht, and Herrengracht canals just west of downtown. While it’s billed as a “shopping area,” I’ve never spent a dime here — but there’s no place in Amsterdam I’d rather wander to reacquaint myself with the city’s unique cocktail of tranquil canals, skinny townhouses with fancy gables, manicured flower boxes, perfectly inviting cafés, and constant, fluid swirl of bicyclists rattling over cobbles with no helmets. Even the garbage bags lining the streets — awaiting collection — are arranged just so.

Heading east, I cut through the busy transit hubs of Spui and Rokin, traversing the touristy core of Amsterdam for the first (and only) time on my trip — providing a jarring contrast to the rest of my day. I realize that the Amsterdam I’m so enjoying gets entirely missed by many visitors.

But just a few steps from the tourist blight, I find myself in the sleepy zone around the University of Amsterdam. I detour a few steps through a fancy archway next to Oudezijds Achterburgwal 229, down the corridor housing the Oudemanhuispoort book market. The rustic tables lining the passage are piled high with secondhand books and art prints. Halfway along the corridor, I duck into a sunny courtyard where university students linger and chat — as if, like me, they’re regrouping from the stag-party chaos a couple of blocks away.

From here, I head east along Staalstraat, a lovely, narrow lane of classic Amsterdam townhouses and some of the city’s best window-shopping (including, at #7b, a wonderful design store confusingly named Droog, and at #17, the top-end local praline shop, Puccini Bomboni). In three short blocks, Staalsraat manages to cross over two entirely different — but equally distinctive — Amsterdam drawbridges.

Popping out at the far end of Staalstraat on Waterlooplein — facing the starkly modern opera house — I realize I’m starving…and I’m just a couple of blocks from one of my favorite scenic Amsterdam cafés: De Sluyswacht, “The Lock-Keeper’s House.” True to its name, it fills a standalone black-brick house from 1659 overlooking a busy intersection of canals in the heart of Amsterdam. I pull up a bench at a shared table and look out over the hubbub of boats big and small plying the brown waters, crisscrossing their way through the city.

For a snack, it’s a plate of the classic Amsterdam bar food, bitterballen — croquettes that have been double-fried to create a crunchy, almost prickly outer skin. The sun has finally decided to come out for good, and the whole city is out, enjoying the early inklings of summer. Dipping my butterballen into spicy Dijon mustard and watching boats scurry to and fro, I wonder why so many people think they need marijuana to enjoy Amsterdam. Sure, come for the marijuana…but stay for the bitterballen and canal views.

Feeling those bitterballen weighing heavy in my stomach, I head back to the hotel for a brief rest. Why am I so tired? I realize it’s because simply walking down the street in Amsterdam is exhausting. You have to keep your head on a swivel, as cars and silent bikes whiz past you constantly, forcing you to jump at a moment’s notice onto the little brick median teetering between the road and the canal. In my 40 hours in Amsterdam, I’ll see at least three or four near-miss accidents — mostly involving tourists (on foot or on bike) who didn’t realize that they don’t always have the right of way, simply by virtue of being from out of town. Dutch cyclists are kind but firm, and will set you straight quickly if you wander in front of their oncoming bike. (You should hear the friendly jingle-jangle of a handlebar bell as if it were a foghorn.) Just as I’m pondering this, I see a Dutch cyclist pull to a stop and — again, kindly yet firmly — point out to a jetlagged tourist family that their toddler is toddling straight toward a canal.

Friday Night

After resting up, I head out in the early evening for a 20-minute walk west — beyond the Jordaan — to one of Amsterdam’s newest foodie hotspots: Foodhallen, Amsterdam’s foray into the European trend of jamming a world of eclectic eateries under one roof. Filling a red-brick former tram depot with shared tables, Foodhallen is ringed by two dozen different food stands, representing a rainbow of cuisines: Basque pintxos, dim sum, Hawaiian poke, tacos, sushi, bitterballen, Mediterranean mezes, Indian wraps, wood-fired pizza, steaming ramen, gourmet burgers, high-end hot dogs, and much, much more. After doing a couple of laps to survey my options, I settle on a plate of chicken-and-corn gyoza and a steaming shumai dumpling with pork and mushrooms. Squeezing into a free seat at one of the hall’s countless shared tables — all of them jammed full on a busy Friday night — I realize that I could have a dozen different meals here, and probably enjoy each one equally.

After dinner, I walk back toward the center, detouring along bustling Rozengracht to catch the 8:30 comedy show at Boom Chicago, Amsterdam’s answer to Second City.  Since 1993, comics including Jordan Peele, Seth Meyers, and Jason Sudeikis have cut their teeth on Boom Chicago’s stage, in English-language sketch and improv shows skewering current events on both sides of the Atlantic. For this show’s audience, savvy, worldly Amsterdam natives seem to slightly outnumber American tourists — all of them laughing in unison at the easy pickings generously provided by the Trump Administration.

Stepping out of the theater to find it’s still light out, I go looking for a canalside nightcap. Drawn once again — like a mosquito to a zapper — to the Westerkerk spire, I find myself back in the Jordaan. At another characteristic brown café, Café de Prins, I nurse a drink at an outdoor table, with a view of the Westerkerk and of a steady parade of well-dressed Amsterdammers rolling by on their bikes as they text on their phones and smoke cigarettes.

Saturday Morning

Determined to make the most of my fleeting few hours in Europe, I follow canals about 30 minutes south to the neighborhood delightfully named De Pijp (“deh peep”), where I stroll the thriving Albert Cuyp Market — several blocks of open-air vendors selling foods, flowers, clothing, housewares, antiques, and more.

The Albert Cuyp Market an easy and enjoyable place to assemble a progressive breakfast. There are pickled herring stands, if that’s your poison — choose between “Amsterdam-style” (chopped up on a bun, with raw onions) or the more adventurous “Rotterdam-style” (pick up the intact filet, dredge it in onions, and lower it delicately into your open mouth).

In the mood for something a little less…aggressively flavorful…I follow my nose to a stand selling poffertjes — tiny, puffy Dutch pancakes cooked on a special griddle. Each one is about the size of a semi-deflated squash ball, sprinkled with powdered sugar. Delicious.

As I wander, I check out many other tempting foods: roasted chicken sandwiches, a hummus bar, an array of Dutch cheeses, roasted nuts, and more.  But the one thing I can’t resist is a hot stroopwafel. Neighboring Belgium is famous for its big, fluffy waffles, but here in the Netherlands, they prefer a thin, crispy wafer…or, actually, two of them, sandwiching a layer of caramel syrup. You can buy stacks of stroopwafels in any shop, but they’re best when warmed up — hot and gooey. I don’t really feel like I’ve been to Amsterdam until I’ve had a stroopwafel. I’m getting this one in just under the wire.

Back at my hotel, I pack my bag in a hurry — determined to squeeze in one last culinary adventure before my flight. Around the corner from my hotel, I’ve spotted a hole-in-the-wall shop called The Lebanese Sajeria, specializing in the Middle Eastern wrap sandwich called a manoushe. I line up and place my order, then wait patiently on the sidewalk as the busy chef delicately lays each flatbread on the dome-shaped griddle in the window until it’s cooked just right. Finally, my name is called, and I find a canalside bench to bite into my wrap. The flatbread is warm and crispy, wrapped around a generous layer of the spice and sesame seed mix called za’atar, along with a layer of spiced ground beef.  It’s hot, delicious, explosively flavorful, and the perfect end to my mini-break in Amsterdam.

Hopping into my Uber, I know that I’ll be back to Amsterdam soon. This city exerts a strange magnetism on any traveler who simply enjoys exploring. Best of all, in two nights and one full day in one of Europe’s most touristy cities, I’ve managed to almost entirely avoid the tacky parallel world that most tourists never leave. If you’re going to Amsterdam just once in your life, of course you should check out the Rijksmuseum, the Anne Frank Museum, and the Van Gogh Museum. But also carve out a little time to putter around the city’s concentric canals. find a cozy café in the Jordaan, snap a twilight photo of a canal at 11 p.m., and munch a manoushe or a poffertje.

Most of the places I visited are my favorite discoveries from past trips — and are included in our Rick Steves Amsterdam & The Netherlands guidebook… although, because this was such a short trip, I brought along the more compact Rick Steves Pocket Amsterdam.

Amsterdam is particularly well-suited for audio tours. Through our Rick Steves Audio Europe app, you can download Rick and Gene’s tours of three different neighborhoods: the Jordaan, the city center, and the Red Light District…all entirely free.

Posted on

Top 10 Sicily Travel Tips

In the spring of 2018, I spent three busy weeks in Sicily, circling the island to put the finishing touches on our brand-new Rick Steves Sicily guidebook — which is available now. Throughout that trip, I collected 10 favorite practical tips for traveling in Sicily. Special thanks to the book’s co-author, Sarah Murdoch, and contributing author Alfio di Mauro for their hard work and abundant insights. Amuni!

Visit a mix of big cities, smaller towns, and countryside sights.

For a good sampling of Sicily, plan to visit a mix of big cities (Palermo, Siracusa); smaller towns (Ragusa, Trapani, Taormina, Cefalù); and striking sights in the countryside (Mount Etna, ancient temples and theaters, the glittering mosaics at Monreale Cathedral). On a quick visit of just a few days, home-base in Taormina or Catania and make strategic side-trips to Siracusa and Mount Etna, then spend a day or two in Palermo. With more time, consider adding your choice of other towns: Agrigento (with its remarkable ancient temples), additional time in Siracusa (for its ancient sites and delightful urban bustle), Ragusa (for its low-key hill town ambience), Trapani (a pleasant west coast town with an array of tempting side-trips, from salt flats to hill towns to offshore islets), and the beach town of Cefalù. For most travelers, the best plan is to rent a car — but be prepared for the often challenging Sicilian roads, especially in cities. (And spring for the full insurance.)

Pig out on street food.

The island’s cuisine — which is distinctly different from mainland Italy’s — is, like Sicily, a unique mix of cultural influences. Choosing between eggplant pasta and fish couscous on the same menu, it’s clear that you’re at a crossroads of Europe and Africa. And some of the best food is also the cheapest. Sicily is renowned for its street food. Try an arancina (deep-fried saffron rice ball), panelle (chickpea fritters), sfincione (rustic, Sicilian-style “pizza”), polpo bollito (a boiled mini-octopus), and — if you dare — pani ca’ meusa…the famed spleen sandwich. To sample several items in one go, just wander through one of the characteristic street markets in Palermo or Catania…or join a street food tour.

Party with the Sicilians.

On this island of very tight-knit communities and fierce local pride, there’s always some big festival going on. Most towns celebrate their patron saint’s day by processing through the streets with an elaborate float (or several). Other celebrations fill a more specific niche. I happened to be in the pristine town of Noto during their biggest party of the year, the Infiorata di Noto. An entire street — several blocks long — was filled with gigantic murals, delicately constructed of flower petals.  And when I was in nearby Ragusa, the townspeople were celebrating the native Ragusano cheese. The town square hosted cooking demonstrations, and every restaurant in town was highlighting a special cheese-forward dish. While I enjoy the serendipity of just stumbling onto Sicilian celebrations, it’s smart to do some homework, find out what local festivities might be going on nearby, and make a point to drop by.

Bone up on ancient history.

In antiquity, Sicily was called Magna Graecia — “Greater Greece” — for the many Hellenic city-states that colonized the island. Ancient Syracuse (today’s Siracusa) was one of the most powerful city-states on the Mediterranean. Sicily was also an outpost of the mysterious Carthaginians, who were almost entirely wiped out by the Romans. And all of these civilizations left behind world-class artifacts. Scattered across Sicily are some of the best ancient Greek temples and theaters anywhere outside of Greece: the Valley of the Temples at Agrigento; Europe’s largest archaeological area at Selinunte; and the theaters in Taormina, Siracusa, and Segesta. The cathedral in Ortigia (Siracusa’s old town) is actually built upon the still-visible columns of a fifth-century B.C. temple. And deep in the remote interior of Sicily is the Villa Romana del Casale, with some of the world’s best-preserved floor mosaics. If you love ancient sites, Sicily will blow your mind. If you don’t…there’s no better place to start.

Visit Mount Etna for its amazing volcanic sights — and its wine.

Mount Etna, which (literally) gave rise to Sicily, is one of Europe’s most accessible active volcanoes. A cable car whisks you halfway up the mountain, and from there, you can hop on a monster-truck bus nearly all the way to the smoldering summit. (It tends to be clear first thing in the morning, then clouds over just as it gets crowded a few hours later — it’s smart to be on the first cable car, at 9:00.) But Mount Etna is also home to one of Italy’s most pleasant wine-growing regions. My favorite stretch — picturesque and still relatively off the beaten path — is on the north side of Etna, between the towns of Linguaglossa and Randazzo. The Etna wine scene has exploded in recent years, garnering more and more international attention. And even if you’re not into wines, the scenery is magnificent: vineyards stretching up sun-baked slopes toward the steaming, snow-capped cone of Etna. Several picturesque wineries offer tours and tastings; it’s customary to call a day or so ahead to let them know you’re coming. (Some favorite finds for the upcoming guidebook include the swanky Tenuta di Fessina, the cheerful Fattoria Romeo del Castello, and the family-run, nicely low-key Filippo Grasso.) If you’re serious about wine, Etna Wine School  — operated by an American vintner expat who literally wrote the book on Etna wines — offers private tours.

Be prepared for heat and hills.

At the same latitude as Spain’s Adalucía and Greece’s Cycladic Islands, Sicily can be very hot for much of the year. (Most of Sicily sits on the African tectonic plate — and the geology and climate really do feel closer to Africa than to Europe.) Many of Sicily’s best sights are dusty ancient landmarks, requiring a hike to reach, with little shade. And virtually nothing in Sicily sits on flat ground — you’ll encounter hills, hills, and more hills. Come prepared with broken-in shoes, sunscreen, and a hat for shade — and take plenty of breaks. Or consider coming off-season, when it’s cooler and less exhausting. Sicily is one of Europe’s most appealing winter destinations. It may not be balmy enough to swim in the ocean, but even in winter, you can often enjoy warm, sunny days and cool, refreshing nights….and zero crowds.

Unwind in the hill towns of the southeast.

Sicily can be intense. But one of my favorite little corners of the island is in the southeast, around the dramatic hill town of Ragusa. With green, rolling hills and neatly stacked stone fences, this area feels almost Celtic. And it’s one part of Sicily where most tourists aren’t Americans, or even northern Europeans — but Italians. In a short drive from Ragusa, you can link up some lovely towns: Modica, famous for its chocolate industry and its dual cathedrals (one on a hilltop, the other in a valley); Scicli, where troglodyte caves carved into the cliffs overlook a fun-to-explore town filling a valley; and beautifully Baroque Noto, rebuilt in a short period after a 1693 earthquake, giving it an unusual architectural harmony (not to mention its world-famous gelato shop, Caffé Sicilia). About halfway through my three-week journey around Sicily, I found Ragusa and the surrounding countryside to be the perfect place to settle in and just relax.

Peel back the layers of history.

Strategically located in the middle of the Mediterranean — practically forming a bridge from Italy to North Africa — Sicily’s culture has been shaped by a staggering variety of overlords and occupiers. There’s so much history on this little island that it’s tempting to just let it wash over you. But this is a place where it’s really worth studying up and grappling with the epic story. From the ancient foundations of the Greeks, Carthaginians, and Romans, to the Arabs who controlled Sicily for more than two centuries (and, during that time, richly developed the island), to the Normans from France who “reclaimed” Sicily for the Christian world and slathered its churches with Byzantine-style mosaics, to the Spanish Bourbon kings who draped the island in a stately Baroque elegance, and even to the mafia who dominated much of Sicily’s 20th century (and whose influence is finally on the wane)…Sicily is a pastiche of history. Get to know and recognize the hallmarks of each period, and before you know it, you’ll be able to step into a church and say, “Wow, those Normans really did a number on this one.”

Go before it’s too late.

In just a few short years, Sicily has quickly become “ready for prime time.” Cities (like Siracusa or Palermo) that were rough, rugged, and a little dangerous have been prettied up and pedestrianized. I noticed lots of European travelers…but relatively few American ones. I was also struck by the relative lack of crowds — even in late May, when the weather’s perfect and mainland Italian cities like Venice and Florence are overrun. All of that is bound to change in the next few years, as more people find out what a great spot Sicily is. Go now, before the cat’s out of the bag.

Accept Sicily on Sicily’s terms.

Street food stand

Sicily is an ideal “deep cut” for Italy connoisseurs who’ve already seen Venice, Florence, and Rome, and want to experience a facet of Italy that’s more intense and challenging. But first-timers might find it a bit wild: buzzing motor scooters, potholed infrastructure, arm-waving people, and, yes, more graffiti and roadside garbage than you’re probably used to seeing. Sicily feels more like Mexico than like Milan. But that’s what I like about it. It’s rustic, rugged, close to the ground, and off the radar of most mainstream tourists. It takes a few days to adjust to the island’s unique rhythms, but once you do, it’s easy to get swept away by Sicily. Best of all, in all of Europe, Sicilians are some of the most enjoyable people to simply interact with. Walk through a bustling street market, strike up some conversations, and let a vendor talk you into buying a three-foot-long zucchini you don’t really need.

Our new Sicily guidebook — with all of the details about everything mentioned here — is available now.

In other blog posts, I wrote about Palermo’s amazing street food scene, the challenge of driving in Sicily, and a stop-by-stop rundown of the ultimate Sicilian road trip.

We also have a wealth of free Sicily content on our website, including a recommended itinerary, links to two new episodes of Rick’s public television series about Sicily, several interviews from Rick’s public radio show about Sicily, more gorgeous photographs, recommended books and movies about Sicily, and much more.

And if you’d like to visit Sicily — but would love it if someone else did all the driving, took care of the hotels and half of the meals, and explained it all to you — well, then, we have a great 11-day tour for you.

Posted on

Go Ahead — Leave an Honest Hotel Review

Earlier this week, the New York Times published an article warning consumers not to put too much weight into overly negative reviews. But when it comes to crowdsourced hotel review sites, like TripAdvisor and Booking.com, I’m concerned about a different (and equally vexing) problem: overly positive reviews.

In our review-driven culture, we’re constantly asked to rate our experiences. And sometimes — especially when the ratings go both ways — there’s a big incentive to just be nice. (I have a relative who always gives Uber rides five stars…even the bad ones.)

I’m all for niceness — but not when it comes to reviews. After all, if everyone is giving well-meaning (but meaningless) top marks to everything, then what’s the point of reviews at all?

I’m particularly aware of this because of my work researching and writing guidebooks. For three months each year, I spend hours every day scouting accommodations — ringing doorbells, climbing up dreary stairwells, and interrogating hoteliers in my search for great sleeps.

What do I look for when evaluating hotels? Location is key, as are factors such as cleanliness, thoughtful amenities, local character, soundproofing, and conscientious management. I’ll admit that this list can be self-contradictory, and I rarely find a place that ticks every single box. But with these factors in mind, coupled with expertise and intuition, at the end of a busy day surveying options, a few gems usually rise to the top.

Another big factor, of course, is the friendliness of the hotelier. But increasingly, I’m realizing that this one is tricky. A gregarious, welcoming host can be a big plus — but risks overshadowing even bigger minuses. And these days, I have a hunch that the “niceness factor” is throwing off the curve for crowdsourced reviews.

Crowdsourced review sites like TripAdvisor and Booking.com have transformed the way travelers choose and book their accommodations. As a writer of old-fashioned paper guidebooks — admittedly, I’m a dinosaur — I have mixed feelings about this trend. But in the end, I really like crowdsourced sites. I use them often, both in my personal travels and to scout leads and verify hunches in my guidebook research.

I don’t see crowdsourced sites as “competition” to what I do, because they occupy a different niche: Guidebooks provide expert advice, while a crowdsourced site seeks a consensus from an army of amateurs. They’re complementary. Our hunch is that people skim our guidebooks’ hotel listings, then further research their top choices online.

But the crowdsourcing model has inherent problems. When working on a book, I personally visit and evaluate dozens of accommodations in a given destination. But the traveler who leaves a review based on their one-time stay has no basis for comparison. As an experiment, a few years ago I systematically inspected the “Top 10” accommodations from a popular review site in a Croatian town I know very well. A slim majority of them were spot-on. But quite a few were unfortunate outliers. I remember one in particular that was significantly less appealing than its next-door neighbor, but cost far more, for no discernible reason.

After years of admittedly non-scientific testing, I’ve found Booking.com to be the most reliable of the big crowdsourced sites. Until recently, I could pretty well trust that anything above a 9.0 rating was probably a winner. But these days, I’m finding more and more exceptions.

There are probably multiple reasons for this. Some unscrupulous hotels have been known to leave fake positive reviews on some of these sites. (That’s one reason I like Booking.com: You can only review a hotel after you’ve stayed there.) And I know for a fact — because hoteliers have approached me about it — that some hotels try to “game the system” by offering a free breakfast or a discounted rate if you show them a positive review you’ve left.

But I don’t think those factors entirely explain the reliability crisis in crowdsourced sites. Let’s not overlook what I think of as the “friendly host problem”:  I believe that “friendliness” is the X factor that can seriously throw off crowdsourced reviews.

When I’m checking out accommodations, I definitely take the friendliness (or unfriendliness) of the hotelier into consideration. I love it when a host who runs a great place is also a great person — as is usually the case. That’s the cherry on top of an enthusiastic hotel recommendation.

But at the end of the day, I have to call it like I see it. So if I love the hosts but find the rooms subpar, I’ll say so. Rick always instructs our researchers, “You have to be incorruptible. Our readers are counting on you.” I think that’s what our customers appreciate about Rick Steves’ Europe: We always put the traveler first.

On review sites, however, I’ve observed significant “grade inflation” for lackluster properties run by wonderful people. On a recent six-week trip throughout southeastern Europe, I had my worst overnight experience at a place with a sterling 9.5 rating on Booking.com. The rooms were grubby and not entirely clean. The carpets were frayed and worn. A drawer handle came off in my hand. In one corner, the paint was literally peeling off the walls. There were water-pressure problems. And the whole place just smelled musty. Simply put, they were not putting money back into their hotel. And they charge higher rates than more solidly run (if not quite as friendly) places just a few steps away.

Re-checking those rave reviews in retrospect, conspicuously little was said about the rooms. Instead, people raved about the “super-friendly staff…they’d do anything for us!” and the “huge breakfast — more than we could ever eat, and they kept bringing us more!” In other words, they were rating the people who run the hotel (who, unquestionably, deserve a “niceness rating” of at least 9.5)…but, crucially, not the complete experience of staying at the hotel (which I’d put below 8.0).

At another place I stayed — in this case, a wonderful property in every way — the conscientious owner told me, “Fortunately, the people next door with the noisy dogs moved out.” Probing for more information, I was told, “Their dogs would start barking early in the morning, every morning, and there was nothing we could do. Strangely, nobody complained. Maybe it’s because they liked us and didn’t blame us. But we knew it was a problem.”

I get it that the neighbor dogs are not the fault of the host. But if I’m reading reviews of that property, and I know I’m a very light sleeper, am I wrong to hope that somebody — anybody — would tip me off?

Look, I’m not a robot, and I know this may sound harsh. And I don’t want to diminish the importance of hospitality — which is huge. But it’s not the only thing that matters, and my “consumer-protection” streak needs to speak up.

At the end of the day, your experience staying at a hotel is shaped by any number of factors. If a hotel has sweet, earnest, chatty owners, but the paint is peeling off the walls and the nightclub downstairs just extended its closing time until 5 a.m., don’t potential future guests deserve to know that? Giving nice people inflated ratings feels altruistic…but you’re hurting other travelers.

That’s why, the next time you’re reviewing a hotel online, I urge you to be honest. Crowdsourced sites don’t have to be purely about promoting hotels — they can, and should, be about looking out for your community of fellow travelers. It’s OK…go ahead and say what you really think. (We do.)

Have you had an unfortunate experience at a hotel that didn’t live up to its ratings?  Please share your stories in the comments — and let’s see if we can start a trend toward more honest and helpful reviews.