We drive from the Siena train station for some 15 to 20 minutes along hilly roads that wind through miles of grapevines arrayed in perfect rows across the undulating landscape. Signs point towards the village of Vagliagli, but we turn and turn again down a graveled road with a sign reading Dievole Wine Resort. Olive trees are to our right, autumn-hued vines to our left, and a valley dotted with an occasional stone villa before us. This is the quintessence of Tuscany—a grand but quiet agrarian landscape that I can almost convince myself hasn’t changed too much since Dievole was founded in 1090.
the resort
The resort is laid out as a cluster of buildings on a steep hillside. Working from the bottom up, the first level is occupied by a pool that overlooks the rolling Tuscan hills. It is too cool to swim in October, but not too cool to lounge in the sun when it finally emerges toward the end of the week.
The next level up is the main area of the resort, containing a bar, a restaurant, a rose garden, and some guest rooms.
Higher still, a beautiful stone cottage hung with ivy turned a brilliant shade of red in October houses the wine tasting room and more guest rooms. The cellar contains rows upon rows of casks where the wine is aged.
All the way up the hill are the last of the guest rooms, where I stayed. As I described in my previous post, these rooms boast the most dramatic views of the valley.
The architecture throughout the resort is simple but lovely, with stone or stucco buildings, white walls, dark wooden beams and trim, and simple décor, like hand drawings of animals that evoke a 19th century country manor.
the grounds
The real magic of Dievole is not indoors, but the grounds. Yellowing grapevines and eucalyptus-green olive groves paint the hills in every direction, sloping upwards to the west, and downwards to the east. There, in the mornings, the sun rises over the mist-swathed valley, breathing warmth into the chill October dawn.
Guests are free to roam among the vines and groves. Wandering solo on the grounds is the highlight of my time in Italy. There’s a pastoral silence that’s only interrupted by a gentle breeze and chirping birds. I meander down rows of vines, taking photographs of the yellow and red leaves and the few bunches of grapes that remain, nearly rotting, after the harvest. The harvest of the olives is ongoing, and workers shake the trees, forcing them to drop their fruit into massive tarps.
There’s also a farm. Actually, I lied, this is my favorite part of the trip. On the first afternoon, I go on a walk. As I round a bend in the road, I come upon a small stone building and am greeted by a rooster and chickens scurrying away from me, while a pair of geese angrily hold their ground. A farmhand napping in a white pickup truck parked by the building awakes to tell me something like, “go ahead, you can walk down the path.” (My Italian is basic, but I get the gist.) I gesture at the angry geese and try to reply something like, “I don’t think they want me to.” I find an alternative way around the geese and spend some happy time chasing the chickens around the farm. Later in the week, I return with my long lens for some tighter shots.
food and drink
On our first full day in Dievole, we are welcomed with a wine tasting in the tasting room. We sample a white Trebbiano, a Chianti Classico, and the Novecento (my personal favorite, which I order exclusively for the rest of the week). We also tour the cellar where the wine is made.
We eat like Grand Dukes of Tuscany for the entire week we are at Dievole. Breakfast is a typical European-style breakfast buffet, with platters of pecorino and prosciutto, heaps of breads and cakes, and some cooked eggs for us Americans. Each night, the chef prepares a three-course Tuscan meal—primi piatti, secondi piatti, and dolci—that are unfailingly scrumptious. Throughout the week, we sample all the various olive oils that Dievole produced—and all the wine of course!
coda
My only regret about this trip was that we were so busy I didn’t feel like I had as much time to just bask in the wonders of the Tuscan countryside as I would have liked. It’s no surprise that the landscapes of Tuscany have inspired so many artists. While I was there for a photography class, others in our group were taking painting and cooking classes. But alas, time was short, and there was also so much to love and explore in the towns and villages of Tuscany—which will be the subject of my next post!
Our group of mostly American tourists followed Caterina of Secret Food Tours through the winding streets of old Bologna like little ducklings. We stopped in one shop and tasted little pastries, then in another shop we picked up a parcel, then tasted slices of almond-flavored cakes called torta di rizo, then acquired another parcel, then squeezed into the cellar of a wine shop, where we tasted 8-, 12- and 25-year aged balsamic vinegar. This was decidedly not the commodity we buy in grocery stores in the US, but something thicker, sweeter, and less acidic—a perfect blend of the tartness of vinegar and the sweetness of syrup.
Caterina explains the making of balsamic vinegar
Eventually we reached the Osteria del Sole, located in the Quadrilatero and distinguishable only by a faint sun painted on the door. (Side note: Stanley Tucci visited the same place in the Bologna episode of Searching for Italy.)
the sign of the Osteria del Sole
Traditionally, we learned, osterias only served wine and other spirits—food was BYO—and Osteria del Sole was a rare one that still abided by this ancient rule. So here, the mysterious parcels we had picked up earlier came out.
They turned out to be two platters of charcuterie—or salumi, in Bolognese parlance—featuring some of the region of Emilia’s best pork-based delicacies. Slices of salami gentile, ciccioli (pork belly), culatello (culo being “butt”), salami rosso, and of course, Bologna’s famous mortadella and prosciutto di Parma.
a platter of salumi di Bologna
While a long-time lover of prosciutto and cured meats in general, I had never tried mortadella before. We Americans had long ago bastardized the name of this cold cut from Bologna into “baloney”, so I looked at this item somewhat askance. But like the balsamic vinegar, mortadella had little to do with what we find in American grocery stores. This pale meat with flecks of white (fat) and black (peppercorns) was as buttery soft as the best prosciutto. Rounding out the platter were some hunks of parmesan (originating in neighboring Parma) and slabs of focaccia di Bologna.
As we noshed on the platter, the servers from the osteria brought us bottles of wine from the region. A Pignoletto, which my Bradt guide to Emilia-Romagna described as “the new prosecco”. A Lambrusco—again a departure from the varietal found in American grocery stores. Not at all sweet, but dry and fizzy, a combination of flavor and texture I’d never encountered before. And of course, a Sangiovese, a lighter wine made of the same grape I would later consume by the liter in Tuscany in the form of Chianti.
And all of this wasn’t even lunch, it was just the appetizer.
When I was planning my trip to Italy, two things had drawn me to Bologna. First and foremost was the food, for which Emilia-Romagna is justly famous as the best in Italy, even in a country known for its cuisine.
In this, Bologna did not disappoint. The Secret Foods walking tour was easily the highlight of my time in Bologna. After the osteria, we went to the Trattoria del Rosso for tortellini in brodo (tortellini being one of Bologna’s signature foods, in this case served in a capon broth) and tagliatelle al ragù (the original form of spaghetti Bolognese, properly served over much broader tagliatelle pasta topped with a ragù made of minced veal, pork, prosciutto, onions, carrots, celery, and only the tiniest bit of tomato). While in the city, I sampled the ragù and tortellini more than once, along with the lasagna, made in authentic Bolognese fashion, with spinach in the noodles and bechamel rather than ricotta.
the bounty of Bologna
the many pastas of Bologna
authentic tortellini bolognese
The second thing that drew me to Bologna was the history. When I first started planning the trip, what I knew about Bologna was that it was home to the first university in the world, founded in 1088 (just 22 years after the Normans arrived in Britain), and that it had been a medieval cultural capital that drew scholars from all over the world long before the rise of such Renaissance families as the Medicis and the Borgias.
Given that, I was expecting to be more impressed by the architecture of the city, but perhaps I did not fully contemplate how much architecture changed from the Middle Ages to the grandeur of Renaissance Italy to which I was accustomed. Most of the architecture in Bologna is a brownish-red brick, which was the building material that was locally available in the city’s heyday. The city boasts some cute churches for sure, like the Basilica Santo Stefano:
the Basilica di Santo Stefano
But the city’s main cathedral on the Piazza Maggiore, the Basilico di Santo Petronio, is a bit of a gargantuan eyesore. Though construction began in 1390, the façade was never completed, leading to the sense that the basilica started getting dressed in the morning and forgot to put on its shirt.
Basilica di San Petronio
The two elements of Bolognese architecture that are admittedly kind of cool are its porticoes and its towers. All through the city, sidewalks are covered in arched porticoes, a feature of the city’s architecture since the 12th century. Some of them are simple, practical coverings, others stately, others whimsical, others works of art. All of them are quite practical, for when it rains in Bologna (as it did much of the time I was there) you can walk around the much of the city under cover, only having to emerge into the rain to cross the street. All in all, there are 62 km worth of porticoes in the city, and they lend the city’s architecture a unique character.
a more stately portico
a more whimsical portico
a more artistic portico
The towers, I suspect, were more impressive in memory than in current fact. Centuries before New York City started sprouting skyscrapers, the great families of Bologna (and elsewhere in Italy) built massive brick towers to the skies, simultaneously for purposes of status and defense. Food tour guide Caterina showed us a rendering of what the city had looked like over a century ago (something like this), before many of the towers crumbled or were torn down due to structural failings, and presumably bombing during World War II. Ruins of them can be seen tucked in corners all around the city, but the Due Torre (Two Towers), are the most prominent remaining.
Torre degli Asinelli
Until recently, you could climb the larger Torre degli Asinelli, but now the smaller Torre della Garisenda is leaning so heavily towards its big brother that the larger tower has been closed due to safety concerns.
Overall, I found Bologna and the Emilia region worth visiting for the cuisine alone. A true foodie could go nuts in this region, visiting wine, cheese, and salumi shops and production facilities, along with restaurants from the hole-in-the-wall to the Michelin-starred. But for me, the region lacked something of the charm that I associate with Italy. But perhaps my impression was soured on account of the rain, which prevented me from spending as much time as I’d have liked enjoying my all-time favorite Italian activity of sitting in an outdoor café, drinking wine, and people watching.
My friends and I traipsed along a wooded path. Pine trees towered above our heads, and their needles and cones formed a blanket beneath our feet. Beams of sunlight darted through the sparse canopy, warming the air that was still cool even in June. Scrubbier greenery lined the path, and a bunny scampered away at the sound of our footfalls.
We reached the end of the path and surveyed the farthest campsites from the parking lot, then doubled back, favoring instead one of the first ones we had looked at. This one was bordered by a slight embankment that led to a cheerfully babbling brook down. Its gentle gurgling could have been recorded for a sleep sounds app.
This would be our home for the evening. “Isn’t it beautiful?” my friends asked me.
our home for the evening
I couldn’t deny that. But they were missing the point.
I didn’t object to being out in the woods and enjoying nature. I didn’t object to sitting around a campfire drinking wine. The part of camping that I dreaded was the part where you have to sleep on the cold, hard ground.
Let me back up. As the title of this blog (and my profile) might suggest, I am not a camper.
Don’t get me wrong, I have camped. When I was a small kid, my parents would take me tent camping in the forests of northern New Jersey (yes, the Garden State really does have forests, cue the Jersey jokes). Campfires, roasted marshmallows on sticks, ghost stories, all the fun childhood camping stereotypes.
When I was an older kid, we lived in Kentucky, and my mom declared herself too old to sleep on the ground (adult me commends my mom’s stand here), so my dad bought a crappy used tent camper. He spray-painted it forest green and towed it behind his Chevy Astro minivan on our way to campsites around the Bluegrass State. The beds in the tent camper made this a slight step up from camping in a tent, but still captured the essentials of the experience.
In college, I camped multiple times in the high desert of central-to-northern Arizona. My roommate and I bought a cheap tent at Walmart, which we may have used a couple of times. Other times, I slept in my car. Camping in college was less about the experience of camping and more about underage drinking far away from any authorities.
These college trips were my only experiences camping as “an adult.” I have some fond memories, like sitting around campfires while guys crooned ‘90s alternative songs to their guitars. (To this day, “Plush” by STP, “Elderly Woman Behind a Counter,” by Pearl Jam, and “Losing my Religion” by REM never fail to evoke these times.)
But I also have memories of freezing on the ground during cold desert nights, unable to get comfortable on the rocky ground despite being drunk enough that passing out should have been a cinch.
Like my mother before me, my problem with camping was always singular: sleeping.
In my college days, I didn’t particularly have a problem with insomnia. But I have since my mid-to-late 20s, which happened to coincide with the period in my life where I started making some money and got introduced to a nicer class of hotel than a Holiday Inn, by virtue of traveling domestically and internationally for work.
Once you’ve stayed in a virtual palace like the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow, your standards start to shift.
Once I recognized that I could now afford a 3-star hotel with clean, freshly ironed white sheets and comfortable pillows, the appeal of camping disappeared for me.
In short, this was the period in my life when my tastes started getting bougie.
Fast-forward around 15 years. I am in Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada with two camping-enthusiast friends, and I have agreed to give camping a fresh try.
Partly, this was because my friends promised me that I would get photo opportunities that would be impossible to get otherwise (this did not pan out). Partly, it was because I had recognized during previous trips to the wilderness that there are remote corners of the world that are more accessible if you’re willing to camp a night or two. And partly, it was because it had been 20 years since I’d last camped, which made it almost like a new experience. I rarely turn down a new experience.
Perhaps with better gear, because we were actual adults now, it would be more comfortable.
Still, the enthusiasm with which my friends hyped the event drew my skepticism. “You’re going to love it!” they insisted. “Maybe we’ll even spend more than one night!”
The first thing I learned about camping was that it had gotten much more complicated in the last 20 years. There’s a whole culture around it, with specialized vernacular and oh-so-much gear.
The night before we departed for Jasper, my friend took out two tubs full of camping gear and soon the living room of our AirBnB in Canmore looked like we had robbed an REI. All the camping doo-dads, wee-hookies, and thingamabobs—only some of whose functions I understood— generated a great deal of enthusiastic discussion.
They called my attention to one set of items in particular: sleeping pads. These will make all the difference for being able to get a good night’s sleep, they assured me. I had to admit, it sounded more promising than sleeping with nothing but a thin nylon tent and sleeping bag separating me from the ground.
The next 24 hours introduced me to even more new terminology.
When camping, apparently water can come in multiple colors, at minimum grey and black, and perhaps purple and orange as well for all I know. The distinction between these was apparently very important to bear attack prevention.
The spot we chose was officially designated a “walk in” spot, vice a “car camping” spot, but my friends gleefully said it may has well have been a car camping spot. (Because we didn’t have to walk far.) The food locker (again, because of bears) was right by the site as well.
It was early afternoon when we selected our campsite. Before we could enjoy the rest of our day, we had to pitch the tents to claim our spot. Pitching the two tents was, with apologies to my camping friends, an ordeal.
These nylon palaces had to be erected with great precision, with a long series of sticks that had to be assembled and bent just so, staked into the ground, clipped into place, and then there were rain flaps that also had to be clipped into place and fastened, and even when all that was done the whole thing looked a little lopsided and the doors didn’t seem to line up where they were supposed to.
And even then, we had only built our shelters, but not our beds. Putting out the sleeping bags and sleeping pads would have to wait until later, because… theft I guess?
A nice thing about hotels and AirBnBs? Your shelter for the night is already arranged when you arrive. You do not have to spend an hour building it before you can go on with your day. ‘Nuf said.
After this we ventured up to Miette Hot Springs, which I have to say was skippable. I love hot springs in almost all their forms, but this one had all the ambiance of a public pool that just happened to be hot—both in terms of the aesthetics and the behavior of its guests. A peaceful spa this was not.
But I digress.
On the way back to the campsite, we ran into three bears (and it has just now occurred to me that they may well have been Papa Bear, Momma Bear, and Baby Bear), demonstrating that I really did need to pay attention to all these rules about water color.
Papa BearMama Bear and Baby Bear
Back at the campsite, we had to finish the construction of our sleeping quarters by dragging the sleeping pads and sleeping bags into the tents. (Making the beds: another thing that is already taken care of in a hotel or AirBnB.)
The rest of the evening was nice enough. We ate food from the cooler that really did not amount to a proper meal but sufficed.
We built a fire in a poorly constructed fire pit that was sunk a little too deep into the ground to properly oxygenate. But this was the one challenge of camping that I was entirely up for, as I do love a campfire. And we drank wine around our little gimpy fire, which was really the one part of camping that I was looking forward to.
Then came the part I was dreading. Sleeping.
Though it was June, it was still chilly in the Canadian Rockies. When it was sunny during the day, we could shed our layers down to a long-sleeve t-shirt. But as the sun went down, it got cool then cold. Even with the campfire weakly blazing, I had on my Paka hoodie, mid-weight Patagonia winter coat, cashmere hat, and gloves.
In the tent, under my sleeping bag, I still struggled to warm up. My SmartWool socks were doing nothing to warm my toes, and (upon my friends’ advice) I had taken off my coat to serve as a poor facsimile of a pillow.
I couldn’t get warm, and I couldn’t get comfortable. All night I shivered, burying my head under the sleeping bag. And the sleeping pad that my friends had so touted did not solve the fundamental challenge of sleeping on a hard, cold ground.
I must have slept some. At least my FitBit told me I did. But it was not a happy sleep.
I do get the appeal. I awoke in the morning in a beautiful place. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and the leftover musk of campfire smoke. The chirps of birds and the gurgle of the brook greeted me good morning.
But in my book, no amount of pleasant outdoorsy things can compensate for a good night’s sleep.
The city of New Orleans conjures for most people images of drunken debauchery. Drinking monstrously large hurricanes at Pat O’Brien’s. Waltzing down Bourbon Street with open beers in hand. Women flashing their boobs in exchange for Mardi Gras beads. Of course, there’s also the gluttony—oysters, fried fish, shrimp, jambalaya, gumbo, étouffée, beignets, po-boys. The list of New Orleans decadences is seemingly endless.
Don’t get me wrong—I support all of those things. But for my third trip to New Orleans last weekend, I decided it was time to branch out a little bit and explore the city’s other offerings. The beautiful thing about New Orleans? You don’t actually have to choose: most of this can be done in conjunction with the eating and drinking. You can be culturally enriched and debauched at the same time.
1. Cemeteries
New Orleans is famous for its aboveground cemeteries, necessitated by the high water-table in the flood- and hurricane-prone city. As one tour guide put it, “you don’t want to see Grandma floating down the street.” Gross.
Over time, the practical necessity of aboveground burial evolved into a cultural and architectural tradition, reflecting the changing cultural influences on the city as it passed from French to Spanish to French to American hands. Wandering through the old tombs, you can find engravings in all three tongues, with dates ranging back to the 18th century. Some tombs are kept lively with (often fake) flower arrangements. Many stand proud and stately their white marble tarnished with black mold. Others grow decrepit with age.
St Louis Cemetery No 3
If you’re up for a moody afternoon (we went on a cloudy day), you have a few options. St Louis Cemetery No 1 is the oldest (established 1789) and easiest to reach from the French Quarter. It also hosts the tomb of Marie Laveau. But, the guard helpfully informed us, it’s also the only one to charge an entrance fee. Instead we followed his recommendation and took a Lyft up to St Louis Cemetery No 3, established in 1854. For a $10, 10 min Lyft ride, we got free entry to a much larger (if less tightly packed) cemetery. (No 2 is apparently closed due to “vandalism and other concerns,” according to the Catholic church).
2. Architecture
If you’re sober enough to appreciate it, New Orleans is full of architectural delights. Sure there are some dramatic constructions like St Louis Cathedral, but for me the beauty of New Orleans lies in the smallest of architectural detail. Every house in the French Quarter seems to boast some special flare—detailed metalwork on the balcony, cheerful plantation shutters, daintily carved corbels.
grandiose balconies on Royal Streettucked away on Dauphine Streeta more modest house down Royal Street with baby blue plantation shuttersdecorative corbels on Royal Street
This was the first trip that I ventured outside the French Quarter. After taking a Lyft to St Louis Cemetery No 3, we walked back to the Quarter along Esplanade Ave and through Tremé, admiring the old Victorian mansions and Caribbean bungalows that lived side-by-side.
Every time I go to the French Quarter I feel a little lost. In part, because of alcohol. In part, because I always seem to stay in a different part of the quarter and start off the trip with my bearings at a 90 degree angle. But I always seem to find my bearings, not by Bourbon Street, but by Royal Street, one block over. Royal Street is a little classier; here Bourbon’s bars are replaced with shops and galleries, some far beyond my price range, but delightful to browse.
Each time I revisit shops and galleries from previous trips, and stumble upon new ones. In my first trip in 2012, I bought a black metal Mardi Gras mask with red detailing. I found that shop again on this trip, but not on the last one. On my second trip in 2022, I didn’t buy anything of note, but fell in love with multiple galleries and artists whose work cost thousands. This time I fell in love with a jewelry store called Fleur d’Orleans, whose proprietor makes jewelry inspired by New Orleans architecture. (I bought a pair of earrings inspired by her neighbor’s window.) I also bought a mask carved out of hibiscus wood. This shop seems absent from Google, but that’s all part of the mysterious fun of shopping in New Orleans.
4. Swamp Tours
For something totally different, this time I ventured outside of the French Quarter entirely. Outside of New Orleans. North of Lake Pontchartrain. Into the swamp. We booked the trip through Cajun Encounters, who helpfully picked us up in a coach (for an additional fee) not far from our hotel, and took us to the Honey Island Swamp. I can’t recommend the company highly enough. Everything ran extremely efficiently, and our coach driver and captain (Bam-Bam and Everett, respectively) were excellent tour guides. (Expect some prison-related humor from the captains.)
One thing I did not consider was that the things I associated with a Louisiana swamp—namely alligators—were cold-blooded reptiles, and therefore not likely to be active on a chilly, cloudy day in late January. Indeed, the alligators and snakes were nowhere to be seen. That made the trip a bit more low-key, but the boat tour among the partially submerged cypress trees hung with Spanish moss made for a scenic if eldritch morning.
honey island swamp
While there were no reptiles in sight, we did see a lot of racoons, including this blond one.
a blonde racoon hiding in the cypress trees
5. Live Music
You don’t actually have to go anywhere special to find live music in New Orleans. Musicians play on the street corners, like this saxophonist outside of Cafe du Monde.
a street saxophonist outside Cafe du Monde
Of course there are plenty of live bands on Bourbon Street, mostly catering to the popular tastes. I’m personally a fan of Famous Door, where cover bands play crowd-pleasing numbers from the 70s, 80s, and 90s. (But beware the jello shots.)
the mural on the side of the Spotted Cat, one of Frenchman Streets many live music venues
This time I ventured a little outside of the French Quarter to the famous Frenchman Street. Here you can find some more authentic New Orleans live music—jazz, blues, funk. We plopped ourselves down at the bar of Snug Harbor Jazz Bistro for hours one evening, chatting with the impossibly young bartender and waitstaff, while listening to the jazz from the concert hall piped in through the speakers. Then we ended up at La Maison, where we listened to a jazz quartet while the bartender in the back made us custom cocktails, then the Blue Nile for some blues, before going back for one last drink at Snug Harbor. Did I mention you don’t really have to pick between the culturally enriching activities and the boozing? Ah New Orleans, laissez le bons temps roulez!
Our seven-day northbound Alaska cruise on the Celebrity Millennium made four port calls: in Ketchikan, Icy Strait Point, Juneau, and Skagway. Each one boasted its own culture and history, although sometimes we had to work to find it amid all the kitchy cruise ship shopping. Personally I avoided all the duty-free jewelry shops that seem to be a fixture in every cruise ship port around the world, and opted instead for the art and the food.
Traditional native art, mostly from the Tlingit and Haida peoples, was also on offer at every port. The art included masks, weapons, paintings, carvings, and scrimshaw. Much of the more authentic work was rather pricey, but also quite breathtaking for those with the budget. Personally, I came home with two paintings, a circular woodcarving of an eagle with a dreamcatcher at its heart, and a pair of earrings and matching necklace made of abalone.
Salmon and other local seafoods were also on offer in most ports. Ever wondered what the real difference is between sockeye, coho, and chinook salmon? Salmon shops will let you sample all the varieties to see for yourself which one you like best.
Aside from those commonalities, each of our port calls had different vibes.
ketchikan
Ketchikan was my favorite of the towns we stopped in. The town hosted an interesting blend of the native Tlingit culture and frontier culture. It hosts Alaska’s largest collection of totem poles, some of which are recarvings of older poles.
one of ketchikan’s many totem poles
The town’s most enjoyable portion was the historic Creek Street, which is a mélange of colorful frontier-style shops built on stilts over a stream that conveys spawning salmon upstream.
Creek Street, Ketchikan
The town is also the gateway to Misty Fjords National Monument, which we ventured into via seaplane, courtesy of Seawind Aviation. Misty Fjords is a vast wilderness, speckled with mountains, fjords, and lakes.
our landing spot in Misty Fjords
This excursion gave me one of my favorite photos of the trip, of two baby seagulls, whose mother was decidedly displeased with our presence.
two baby seagulls in misty fjords national monument
icy strait point
Icy Strait Point, adjacent to Hoonah, was really all about the whale watching (much more to follow about the whales in a subsequent post). There is a small town there with shops, all of which is 100 percent owned and operated by Native Alaskans. (The aforementioned abalone earrings and necklace that I bought were purchased here, made by the girl who checked us out!) Another of my favorite photos was of the fishing gear in town, a testament to the local economy.
fishing nets in icy strait point
juneau
Alaska’s capital was honestly the least interesting of the towns we visited. Here, more than anywhere else, the part of the town we visited was just a succession of kitchy cruise port shops, with many of the same offerings, but little of the charm of Ketchikan’s Creek Street. The main thing to do in Juneau seemed to be to get out of Juneau and enjoy the surrounding wilderness. Two major glaciers lay just outside of the city: Mendenhall, whose sudden melting caused a major flood that wiped out houses in Juneau shortly after our visit, and Herbert Glacier, which we landed directly on top of in a helicopter! I’ll have a whole post on Alaska’s glaciers to follow.
me and my mother on herbert glacier
While I have slightly pooh-poohed Juneau as a town, I do have to acknowledge the excellence of Tracy’s King Crab Shack. After days of disappointing meals aboard the Celebrity Millennium, we were really craving some real Alaskan seafood, in particular crab. We ordered a combo meal that came with a crab bisque, crab cakes (inferior to the Chesapeake variety, but I’m biased), and your choice of two varieties of king crab (red was better than golden). Best meal of the trip by far.
skagway
Our time in Skagway was disappointing, although this was not entirely Skagway’s fault. The most popular excursion out of Skagway is the White Pass and Yukon Route Railway, which we booked… and unfortunately, the weather was truly terrible, spoiling the views. Most disappointing of all, we did not actually get to go into the Yukon, but stopped right at the border between British Columbia and the Yukon.
a rare sunny moment on our journey through British Columbia
The town of Skagway really embraced the old-timey frontier vibe, befitting its role as the gateway of the Yukon Gold Rush starting in 1897. The town probably would have been enjoyable to walk around for longer and take in more of the well-maintained historical buildings, but by the time we returned from the disappointing train voyage, we didn’t have much time or energy to do so.
I awoke on our first morning at sea and snuck out onto the chilly balcony. The sun rising behind spotty clouds gilded the sea in ribbons, while further in the distance, a mountainous landscape drifted by.
sunrise on our first morning at sea
Up on the tenth deck, I got distracted on my quest for coffee and joined other bundled passengers at the stern. Speaking in hushed morning tones, we watched the smooth water ripple in our wake and wash up against the islands that dot the narrow straits of the passage north from Vancouver.
smooth waters early the first morning
“Look!” I whispered loudly, pointing to a spot where I’d seen a puff of water and a sleek back arch. “I think that was a whale!” The other early birds clustered around me to see the tail of a humpback whale (I would later learn) flick up as it dove deeper down into the icy sea.
The glimpse came so quickly, I was disappointed. I hadn’t even had my camera with me. I needn’t have feared. Over the course of the next seven days, I would capture literally thousands of pictures of whales (or in many cases, water where whales had been just seconds before).
An Alaska cruise is a bucket list item for many people, and so it was for my mother. For years, she had been declaring Alaska her plan for her 70th birthday. At times, it almost seemed impossible that it would happen, due to obligations at home. It took intensive planning, but through sheer force of will she made it happen. She landed in Vancouver on the day after her birthday, and we set sail the next day on the Celebrity Millennium.
Booking an Alaskan cruise can be bewildering. More than a half dozen cruise lines offer sailings throughout the summer, ranging from 7 to 14 days, each a subtle variation on the same itinerary. We selected a northbound only 7-day sailing because my mother could only spare 7 days from home, and we figured we would see more of the coastline if we sailed in only one direction.
I am an experienced traveler, but somewhat of a novice cruiser, so I had only the vaguest concept of the vibes of the different lines. This post from The Points Guy was helpful in narrowing down which lines had the right vibe for us, and from there we chose the Celebrity Millennium based mostly on a good sailing date and a good deal. We sailed out of Vancouver on 21 July, and made port calls in Ketchikan, Icy Strait Point, Juneau, and Skagway, before disembarking in Seward on 28 July.
More to follow on our adventures in Alaska in subsequent posts, for today, I will review our experience on the Celebrity Millennium.
Celebrity Millennium
The Millennium is the oldest ship in the Celebrity fleet, the first of the Millennium class ships launched in 2000. We liked Celebrity when we were booking in part because its ships were somewhat smaller than other lines, with a capacity of just over 2100. The environment was accordingly fairly cozy for a mid-priced cruise.
the celebrity millennium
lodgings
We stayed in a veranda room on the 7th deck—crucially, on the starboard side of the ship, which was important to us when booking since we’d only be transiting northbound. I appreciated having the veranda, because it allowed me to pop out and take pictures when we were passing by something particularly scenic first thing in the morning. But truthfully, we spent little time in the room and could have saved ourselves some money by booking a room on a lower deck with a porthole, which we were told by other passengers were large. Our room was comfortable and well-equipped enough by cruise ship standards.
amenities
In true bougie style, the amenities I took most advantage of were the spa, the hot tubs, and the pool. The spa area also hosted a gym, of which I did not avail myself at all. I greatly admire the dedication of those who work out while on vacation, but I am not one of them.
As one would expect, the spa was expensive, so I only went for one treatment—a seaweed wrap massage, in which one is wrapped up like a burrito in a green, muddy, soothing goo. It’s messy, but a delight for sore muscles and a perfect way to warm up after a cold day whale watching in Alaska.
Speaking of great ways to warm up, we made a fair number of trips to the solarium, which is an enclosed area with four hot tubs and a pool of sorts. I say “of sorts” because this was not the type of pool you swim laps in. It was more like a massive hot tub, only a couple degrees cooler than the hot tubs. On either side were submerged lounging couches that bubbled, each large enough for 3-4 people. We spent a good many hours laying in the bubbles, staring up at the day or night sky.
There were also hot tubs and a pool in the open air, but we did not visit them. Alaska is chilly, even in July, y’all.
food and drinks
The food was the biggest disappointment on the ship. We dined in the Metropolitan dining room each night, and did not explore the specialty restaurants. Perhaps we would have been more satisfied if we had spent the extra money on dining, but I think we kept hoping that Metropolitan would improve, and that we’d just had bad luck the previous nights.
Every night we were offered three courses: appetizer, entrée, and dessert. Every day half the menu changed, half stayed the same throughout the cruise. All of the entrées I had sounded fancy enough—prime rib, duck a l’orange, barramundi—but they were all really just so-so. Meat was often overcooked, and the vegetable sides were boring, potatoes and carrots and such. Even one of my favorites, french onion soup, was oversalted. I do recommend the escargot, which compared favorably to the real thing in France.
formal night on the celebrity millennium
Booking the dining room was also an issue. I had requested an early fixed dining time when I booked (traveling with a 70-year-old), and Celebrity had never bothered to inform me that the fixed dining times were all booked up. This led to a lot of confusion, and tense exchanges with the hostesses, who simply could not guarantee us a table. Eventually we agreed on a fixed reservation at 5:45 after a couple of frustrating days.
The bars were much better. We explored most of them, but the two I will make special note of are the Martini Bar, Cellar Masters, and the Sky Lounge. My mother discovered a love of martinis on this trip, after we shared a martini flight on the second day. We returned to this spot repeatedly over the trip.
martini flight
One deck up, Cellar Masters was a nice wine bar that offered a quiet spot for a day drink, quiet lounge music in the evenings, and a round-the-world wine tasting with our sommelier from the Metropolitan on our final afternoon.
The Sky Lounge I recommend for its views alone. Situated at the fore of the 11th deck, it was the perfect spot to come relax and enjoy the view as the ship set sail in the evenings—as long as you didn’t too much mind the trivia games taking place on the stage (which I kind of did).
entertainment
We didn’t go to too many of the shows. There was a pair of acrobatic Ukrainians who were very good (Slava Ukraina!), and a Broadway hits show that gave my mother vertigo, so we didn’t make it through the whole thing. I will say that for daytime fare, I adored the ship’s naturalist, Celia Garland, who offered lectures on whales, otters, seals, and bears during the days. She also narrated our encounter with the Hubbard Glacier from the bridge. She was incredibly informative and engaging, and I’m officially obsessed with her Instagram account.
Speaking and whales and glaciers, they were truly the twin highlights of the trip, and I’m going to have whole posts on each of them in weeks to come. Next up though, the towns of southern Alaska. More to follow!
“It’s the perfect drink for a hot day like this,” said the server at the Fairmont Waterfront of the Harborside Spritz, helping me decide which cocktail to order. We both laughed when I observed, “I love that this is considered a hot day in Vancouver.” The entire day had been sunny while barely topping 70 degrees.
a harborside spritz at the Fairmont Waterfront
It was mid-July, and I was less than 24 hours from embarking on a 7-day northbound Alaska cruise departing out of Vancouver—a bucket list item for my mother, who had just turned 70 the day before. I arrived on Wednesday night on a direct evening flight from Dulles to Vancouver and had the better part of a day to kill before my mother arrived Thursday afternoon.
With a 3-hour time change, I awoke early, and did what I always do in a new city: I walked. A lot. I took some pictures. I walked some more.
My starting place was the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel, which was located just across the street from Canada Place, a convention center that doubles as the cruise ship terminal. I picked up my go-to Starbucks order (latte with almond milk) and started working my way west along the waterfront.
The north shore of the peninsula on which downtown Vancouver is situated is lined with running trails and dotted with seaplanes and marinas. I squinted into the glare of the morning sun off the crystalline waters of Vancouver Harbor and watched the seaplanes take off and land for a while, trying to capture the perfect shot. I did not succeed. Buggers move fast.
a seaplane on vancouver harbor in the early morning lighta marina on vancouver harbor
stanley park
Stanley Park occupies a 400-hectare Brazil-shaped spit of land, awkwardly sticking out the end of the peninsula. Given more time, I would have explored much more of this urban forest. Even as it was, I spent several hours of my morning photographing pondside cattails, bees on flowers, and a blue heron feeding.
a cattail in Stanley Parka blue heron feeds in Stanley Parkflora and fauna of Stanley Park
Rather than delving deeper into Stanley Park, I looped around to the south side of the peninsula and walked along the seawall and beaches that line English Bay. All the time my eyes were cast towards the bridges that crossed over the mainland, and more importantly, Granville Island, which was one of my must-visit destinations in Vancouver. How do I get to those bridges, I wondered.
granville island
I pulled out my phone had one of those rare moments of travel kismet—ferries! Of course in a maritime city like this there would be ferries. And just my luck, there was a ferry stop located just a few hundred feet away.
Perhaps I had not thought of ferries because, unlike Seattle’s massive ferryboats, Vancouver’s are adorably tiny. The False Creek Ferries, of which I became a patron that day, look like the little toy boats you give toddlers to play with in the bathtub. I do not say this to disparage—they were cute, convenient, and efficient.
No more than 20 min after I discovered the existence of the ferries, I found myself on Granville Island. This is precisely the type of place I’m drawn to everywhere I go. Like Pike’s Place in Seattle, Eastern Market in DC, Reading Terminal Market in Philly, or Spitalfields Market in London, it’s a place where raw fish, art, artisanal chocolates, jewelry, cured meats, and fresh cut flowers are all sold side-by-side with no apparent contradiction. I can and have wandered these sorts of places for hours, wanting to buy everything but ultimately buying little to nothing, overwhelmed by choice.
In this case, I had lunch at a little German place and bought my mom some birthday chocolates then ventured back to the False Creek ferry terminal. I took the scenic route, all the way to the other side of the narrow inlet that bisects Vancouver, and disembarked at the Plaza of Nations.
From here I meandered back through Chinatown (which did not have terribly authentic vibes, though I’m sure it must have been a real Chinatown at one time), and the Gaslight District, where I would have liked to spend more time perusing the shops, restaurants, and bars. But by this point I had been walking for at least 7 hours, and my mother was supposed to be arriving sometime soon (after several flight delays).
I sat in the outside patio of the bar, I ordered my Harborside Spritz, and I rested my aching legs.
That night I treated my mom to a seafood feast at Riley’s Fish and Steak. All I had really wanted for my mother’s birthday was a fancy seafood restaurant (but not so fancy that the portions were pretentiously small), with a view of the water that we have to walk too far to. We ordered The Deluxe seafood tower, plus an add-on of scallops, a side of brussels sprouts, and a bottle of white. For my seafood-, wine-, and water-loving but unpretentious mother, Riley’s checked all of the blocks except the view of the water.
the deluxe seafood platter
Believe it or not, this was actually my first time in Canada. I’m starting to get why all the Americans in a Handmaid’s Tale who managed to get out fled to Canada (geography aside). I found Vancouver to be a very picturesque, livable city, with lots of nature and greenery inside the city, lots of biking and running paths, seemingly fun neighborhoods like the Gaslight District. And did I mention that locals consider 70 degrees to be a “hot” day? Vancouver, you are on my list of cities to flee to if the US turns into Gilead. O Canada!
You are the type of person who enjoys slightly more off-the-beaten track travel and don’t mind being deprived of some of the comforts of home. If that’s you, and you enjoy hiking, snorkeling, or diving, there are tons of options. We only hit a couple of hiking trails, and many would have been beyond my capabilities, but if you are hardier than me, you can really go nuts here.
It’s also a great spot for whale watching, which we did not get a chance to do. It seemed like most of the boats went out on Saturdays, so include a Saturday in your itinerary if you want to do this.
If you are looking for a vacation where you can combine fun adventures with pure peace, relaxation, and beauty, this is an island well worth a visit.
On the other hand, being in a country that doesn’t cater to tourists has its downsides. You probably should not plan a trip to Dominica if…
You’re the type of person who likes to be waited on hand and foot while on vacation, who likes to have all the amenities, or even who wants to spend much of a Caribbean vacation on the beach. It’s not an island known for its beaches, and it is not a highly developed island, so some things are just difficult or inconvenient.
If you want to take it easy on vacation and not have to problem-solve, this is probably not the island for you.
If you’re going to give it a try, here are some practical things to be aware of before you go:
driving
In previous posts, I promised more on the driving. In some ways it’s easy. If you are comfortable or willing to get comfortable with left-side driving, there’s one major road that circumnavigates the island, and one that cuts across. Just know where you are relative to the sea, and it’s pretty hard to get lost.
But most roads aren’t well-maintained. The Roseau-Portsmouth road was a notable exception. There aren’t many sidewalks or parking spaces, so you you’re always dodging the hazards of people, cars parked on either side of narrow streets, and the gullies.
Gullies were our term for massive gutters that line the streets in certain areas. They are initially terrifying because they are obviously wide and deep enough to engulf your tire and ruin your day. Navigating them while also getting used to the dimensions of a new rental car and left-side driving is a bit of a nail-biting experience.
Then of course there’s the mountainous, curvy roads are probably steeper grades in some places than would be allowed in US road construction. If you’re comfortable on mountain roads already, this part is the least of your problems. But if you’re not, or if you’re a nervous driver generally, you’re probably going to have a rough time. I am comfortable on mountain roads and not a nervous driver, and it took me about two days as the primary driver to adjust. (Although I was also adjusting to driving on the left.)
driving down this mountain was a blast
weekends and holidays
Much but not all of the country shuts down on Sundays, so plan accordingly. We correctly anticipated that many things would also be closed for International Labor Day (1 May) on Monday. We had not anticipated bonus Labor Day on Tuesday. We had planned around a 2-day gap of everything being closed, but the third day threw us off. We basically lost a day of sightseeing, and I was legitimately worried that we would be forced to live off Kind bars and trail mix the whole day before we finally found lunch.
finding food
Speaking of which, unless you’re staying in Roseau, bring some snacks with you. I wasn’t kidding about the Kind bars and trail mix. I always bring snacks like this when I travel, and I almost never need them, but in Dominica I really did. For the most part, we ate one real meal a day and subsisted on snacks brought with us from the US, local mangoes and other fruit (a highlight!), and what little food we could scrounge from the “grocery stores”, most of which were not really worthy of the name.
Imagine trying to live off what you can buy at a 7/11 for a week (just the dry goods part, not the revolting hot dogs and pizza). You could get rice, beans, frozen meat, shelf-stable veggies like onions and potatoes, eggs, and bread, but for the most part the shelves were stocked with canned foods. We did have a local fruit and veggie stand, which was handy when there was someone there.
our local fruit and veggie stand
If we had been smart, we would have asked the caretaker or the housekeeper how to get fresh fish at the beginning of the trip (we learned too late that there was apparently a fish truck that comes around Calibishie blowing a conch shell), and then we might have been able to cook more at the house.
I will say we stopped at a grocery store in Roseau, and that one was stocked with pretty much everything you would expect in a western-style grocery store. But Roseau was more than an hour away, and it appeared to be the exception country-wide (even in Portsmouth).
money
Credit cards were accepted some places, but it was mostly a cash economy. The country uses the East Caribbean Dollar (XCD), but also accepts USD pretty widely. As a rule, I hate being that American who insists on paying in USD. Although I came armed with 500 USD in cash as a backup, my plan was to take out XCD from an ATM and mostly rely upon that.
However, the functioning of the ATMs (or perhaps their connectivity to US banks) was spotty, and at times our supply of XCD dwindled perilously low while we waited for the ATM gods to smile upon us. Most people were willing to take USD, but Bank of America gave me my $500 in Benjamins, so breaking them was a challenge.
At the Red Rocks Bar, when XCD were running very low, I asked the bartender if we could buy 2 beers with a 100-dollar-bill and get our change in XCD. He initially told me yes, of course, but didn’t actually have enough XCD in the till. Lesson here is bring your ATM card, but also plenty of small denomination US bills.
safety
Those were all the inconveniences. One thing we never worried about though was safety. We were two women in our late 30s-early 40s, and literally never had any physical concerns for our safety or even a real fear of being robbed.
(Don’t get me wrong, we locked the house and the car, but that’s just what city-dwelling Americans do.)
Truly the people were lovely, friendly, and helpful everywhere we went, but in a way that felt authentic—not the phony, overly trained customer service that you find in resorts or heavily touristed areas (totally picturing a White Lotus resort right now), but genuine niceness.
In Portsmouth, a man approached us with a gallon-sized Ziploc full of weed in his coat, and even he was perfectly lovely when we politely declined to purchase his wares. “Dominica, where even the drug dealers are kind.” Free offering for the Dominica tourist board.
where to stay
I can’t recommend the Villa Passiflora more. Someone put a lot of thought into the construction of this house—sustainable hardwood decking, trim, and shutters. A layout that captures the breeze and makes air conditioning largely unnecessary. Beautiful furnishings and knickknacks all supposedly sourced from local craftsmen. The view is amazing, the water temperature in the infinity pool was perfect, and the landscaping was meticulously maintained. We had many avian visitors, both inside and outside the house.
a morning visitor
There were just two of us, so one of the three bedrooms went un-opened. But the third one looked to be the same size as the one I stayed in, which was smaller than the master bedroom where my friend stayed. I would say you could fit up to three couples, a family of 4-5, or a friend group of 3-6 (depending on how comfortable you all are sharing beds).
Staying on the north side of the island had its plusses and minuses. On the plus side, it was an easy drive from the airport in Marigot, so when we arrived near sundown we didn’t have to drive too far in the dark. The area is known for being heavier on the ex-pats (although we didn’t seem many), and there was plenty to see and do in our immediate area. On the other hand, see notes above about the food / grocery situation.
If you want more resort comforts, there are a few around Portsmouth, including an Intercontinental. Aside from that, I would not stay in Portsmouth. If you want more convenience, like a Western-style grocery store, you could look for AirBnBs or hotels around Roseau (the Fort Young Hotel looked appropriately swanky). We didn’t make it down that way, but the southern side of the island caters more to divers. If I ever went back I might spend a few days at a dive resort down there to experience that side of the island more.
So that is it! My final post on Dominica. Stay tuned for my next series on my summer Alaskan cruise!
The sky was alive with color when we picked up our rental car—a older model Honda HRV—at the Avis rental place a short walk from the terminal. I’ve owned Hondas for over a decade, so the car was pretty familiar to me, aside from the fact that the driver’s seat was on the opposite side. This was my first time driving in a country that drives on the left, and I have to say the 30 min from the airport to the Villa Passiflora in Calibishie in the waning light was a harrowing experience. I will have much more to say about the driving later.
After checking in with the villa’s caretaker, we ventured out into the town to get some dinner and essentials at Coral Reef Bar & Restaurant, which had a little grocery store (more like a convenience store) attached. We sat on the porch just at the water’s edge, which we couldn’t really enjoy because by this point darkness had truly fallen.
That first night we enjoyed a seafood feast that set the model for most of the meals we would enjoy on the trip: amazing seafood + sides that were just “meh”. I had a delightfully seasoned mahi-mahi, paired with fries that appeared to come out of an Ore-Ida bag. We drank the local beer, Kubuli, which I found to be a bit too hoppy for my (admittedly anti-hoppy) tastes. At the convenience store, we picked up basics, including a bottle of the rum that would become our staple, Belfast Estate BB Rum.
We knew most things would be shut down on Sunday, which was fine by us, as we were both looking for a vacation with some built in chill time. Waking up to this view, I was pretty content to stay put.
Perched up in the hills, the house was largely open to the elements. The porches on the first and second levels were nearly as large as the enclosed rooms themselves, of which there were really only four (not counting bathrooms)—a kitchen on the first floor, a master suite on the second floor, and two other bedrooms (one on each floor). Each one could be fully opened up in fair weather, with plantation shutters and French doors and for the most part that’s how we left the house.
Fans and natural breezes provided all the cooling we needed—and when they didn’t, there was always the infinity pool, which is where we spent most of our first day. Laying in the sun, floating in the pool, drinking a Dark & Stormy. Rinse, repeat.
Mid-afternoon (after sobering up from the Dark & Stormy), we ventured out to find some real food (the off-brand corn flakes I’d bought the previous night could only tide us for so long) and explore the local town by the light of day.
We drove west through Calibishie and beyond, along the coastal road that rings most of the island.
After passing through town, the road swept up onto the cliffs and plunged down again to the shoreline. The only challenge was finding places where we could safely pull over to take in the view of the aqua blue, rocky coastline.
We found a fun little beach in a town called Thibou (Tee-bow)—the armpit of the island, as my friend called it, not because it wasn’t nice, but because it was right in the crevasse before the northern peninsula juts up.
Finding an open grocery store on a Sunday proved a challenge, and stores that were open were rather limited in their selections. We managed to cobble together enough ingredients to pull off a chicken curry back at the house, where we watched the sun set on our first full day in Dominica. Despite the challenges of driving and finding food, we felt at peace and confident that we’d chosen our island destination well.
