Tag: travel

photoessay: under the tuscan sun

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 19^th 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!

2025-01-09
a tuscan dream

I awoke a little after sunrise to the sound of birds chirping. Blue sky with puffy clouds reflected in the pane of my open bedroom window, which was framed by white curtains.

my bedroom window

At the window, I reveled in the view. A fig tree and a cypress tree framed the two sides of the window, and from there, the ground sloped downwards, towards a vineyard, yellow with fall. Beyond that, rolling hills to which mist still clung.

view of the sunrise from my bedroom

I dressed, grabbed my camera, and walked down the little path outside my room, which ended at the start of a vineyard. I followed the paths through the vineyard, climbing to the top of the hill for the most panoramic view of the valley—superior to the view from my bedroom only due to the height.

I photographed sweeping vistas and the tiny details of grape leaves in equal measure, then moved on to the freshly harvested olive groves. I actually spun around, my hands grazing the hanging olive branches as I went. This was the Tuscany that I had imagined when I booked this trip a year ago.

I take photography classes back home in DC through the Capital Photography Center. Sometime in summer 2023, a week-long photo workshop in Tuscany had popped on their website for October 2024. Clicking through the photos from previous classes, a vivid dream took shape in my mind of cypress trees, vineyards, olive groves, and charming medieval and Renaissance villages. It would be a pricy trip, so I hesitated for a few days. But I found myself daydreaming, lost in the fantasy of Tuscany I had crafted in my mind. The dream would not be denied.

The trip was worth every penny. The worst thing I can say about it is that the rain that dogged my first week in Italy (see posts on Bologna and Ravenna) continued well into my week in Tuscany. As we were driving through the Val D’Orcia on a dreary morning, we stopped for a photo opp. I was wearing waterproof boots with good treads, but the soil was so damp it had turned into the consistency of wet potter’s clay, wedging itself into every cranny of the boot. Effectively, I was walking on a slick sheet of clay on a surface of slick clay. Long story short:

I fell in the mud

(Photo credit: Marie Joabar)

I had to walk around sopping wet and muddy for the rest of the day while we toured Pienza.

I share this story because a) it really was quite funny, and b) I wouldn’t want anyone to get the misimpression that my travels, bougie though they may be, are always so glamorous. Sometimes I end up covered in mud.

(On the plus side, how great is that rain hat that I bought in Siena? Courtesy Cappelleria Bertacchi.)

new rain hat!

Rain and mud aside, I have much to say about all of Tuscany’s delights… so much so that I’m going to break this up into a few different posts.

Next week, look for a post on the Dievole Wine Resort, which was the site of the aforementioned twirling in the olive groves. I truly cannot imagine a more heavenly place to spend a week. I could go on and on about how much I loved this place… and I probably will.

The following week, look for a post about the towns and villages that we visited on our daily photography excursions around Tuscany: Siena, San Gimignano, Radda, and Pienza. Each delightful in its own charming way!

2024-12-29
ravenna: a forgotten roman capital

On the evening of my arrival in Ravenna, I embarked upon my typical aimless journey of a new city. I had already purchased my pass to all of the city’s main UNESCO heritage churches and basilicas, studied the city’s map, and walked around town getting my bearings. I came upon the Basilica di San Vitale, which was on the next day’s agenda. The sky overhead was clear as the sun was setting, but white storm clouds billowed in the sky behind the 6^th century church, concealing the last of the sun before it set.

Basilica di San Vitale

Fast forward to the next morning, and I am speed-walking back to San Vitale from the covered market where I had stopped for a cappuccino and shelter, my hair sopping with water. My jeans are drenched through to the skin and the water has followed the gradient of my socks down into my boots, so I am quite literally wet from head to toe.

Finally, I reach the arched gateway to the basilica, where I have to pull out my phone in the pouring rain to show the staff my e-ticket, and then I dart as fast as I can to the entrance to the basilica. Ah, shelter! But even here, parts of the mosaiced floor are inch-deep in rain.

waterlogged floors in the Basilica di San Vitale

Such was my one full day in Ravenna: miserably wet. But you know? Even so, I really enjoyed the city.

I didn’t know much about Ravenna besides its name before I started planning this trip. But just a little bit of research into its fascinating history convinced me that it was a must-visit. During the late, troubled days of the Western Roman Empire, it briefly became the west’s capital in the early 5^th century CE. When the Eastern Roman Empire took Italy back from the Visigoths in the late 5^th-6^th centuries, Emperor Justinian built Ravenna into a city glittering with mosaics in churches that remain remarkably well-preserved 15 centuries later.

These churches stand as monuments to a slice of time barely remembered in history books, when Rome itself had fallen but the Western Empire held on, imbibing influence from the Eastern Empire before west and east were fully sundered. The mosaics themselves are very eastern, and far better preserved than, say, those in the Hagia Sofia (for which the Basilica di San Vitale was an early prototype, according to my Bradt Guide to Emilia-Romagna). Truly, they are breathtaking works of early Christian art that display remarkable craftsmanship for their era, with human expressions far more lifelike than anything from the Middle Ages. Still, take the mosaics away, and the columns of classical Rome stand tall in places like the Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo.

In all, there are five UNESCO World Heritage sites in Ravenna. The Basilica di Sant’Apollinare Nuovo was just steps from my hotel. Unlike some of the other sites, this one required a pass but not a scheduled entry time. It was my first stop on the day of my arrival, before the rain started.

Jesus enthroned

three wise men

Mary enthroned

Saint Cecilia (my confirmation saint)

The next morning, I had an early appointment to visit the Battistero Neoniano, named for the 5^th-century bishop (Neon) who commissioned its mosaics. This one required that you book a specific timeslot, so I braved the rain and arrived about 10 minutes early, praying they would let me in a bit early. (They did.)

dome of the Battistero Neoniano

I’ve already recounted my waterlogged journey from there to the Basilica di San Vitale, where I hunkered down for as long as I could manage. Fortunately, there was plenty of beauty to photograph there.

The namesake of the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia was the Constantinople-born daughter of the last Roman Emperor of a united and peaceful Rome. Later, in Ravenna, she ruled as regent for her son, and lived a colorful life during turbulent times for Rome. The mausoleum was built for her, but does not actually house her remains.

My appointment to see the mausoleum, whose quaint fauna-filled mosaics were my favorites, was at noon. Once again, I braved the pouring rain for a short jaunt across a courtyard a bit before my timeslot in the hopes I’d be allowed in, rather than being forced to stand in the rain. Again, the gambit paid off.

I did not make it to the fifth site, the Cappella di Sant’Andrea, because its limited opening hours did not align with my schedule.

I spent the rest of the day alternately eating and avoiding the rain. After the Mausoleo, I lost time at the Osteria del Tempo Perso, ate a lovely risotto and warmed up with a Sangiovese, before venturing back out into the rain in search of dry clothes, a warm bed, and a nap. Later, the rain finally gave up, and I emerged again for dinner and wine at the charming enoteca, Ca’ de Ven. (I mean really, where but in Italy can you find a bar with ceilings like this?)

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It’s a rare city that can manage to charm me despite appallingly bad weather, but Ravenna did. The sense of being in a time capsule from a forgotten era that overwhelmed me when gazing at 6^th century mosaics contrasted pleasantly with the clean, modern, small city that buzzed outside the church walls. History aside, it seemed like a nice place to live, which not every tourist city can claim.

2024-12-08
bologna: a damp journey through a foodie paradise

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 12^th 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.

rainy Bologna

2024-11-17
memories of italy

Italy has always called to me. When I was a sophomore in college, I participated in a summer abroad program that studied ancient civilizations, taking us students to Athens, Rome, and Tunis (Carthage in classical times). It was my first trip abroad, aside from freshman year spring break in Mexico. Of these three destinations, we spent the longest time in Rome, where I lived for three weeks in a pensione in Trastevere.

view of the Tiber River from Trastevere

There I took classes on classical and Christian history. For the latter, our professor sent us on a scavenger hunt of Rome’s churches, seeking out the variety of odd and vaguely gross Christian relics (like saints’ fingers) preserved therein. We visited the Vatican and the Parthenon, the Forum and the Colosseum, the catacombs and the ancient walls of the city. We were given freedom on long weekends to explore the country, which I spent in Florence and Venice.

a Cross inside the Colosseum

the Trevi Fountain

The Roman Forum

the Vatican

I lounged in cafes, drinking cappuccinos and wine and watching the life of Italy move around me, more languid than the life I knew in the US. When Rome beat Naples in some soccer match, I joined the electrified crowds in the nearest piazza in their raucous celebration. I explored the Vatican Museum, the Uffizi, and various other museums and art exhibits, my first real introduction to art.

Italy was my first experience of Europe, the beginning of the longest love affair of my life. I’ve been to a total of 27 European countries since then, but Italy has always held a special place in my heart. In many ways, when I think of Europe, it is Italy that I picture.

But Italy contains multitudes, and though I’d returned to Naples and Rome a couple of times when I worked for the Navy, there were many parts of this diverse country that I had yet to explore. So a year ago, I jumped at the opportunity to book a week-long photography class in Tuscany through Capital Photography Center and Il Chiostro for October 2024.

When I decided to add an additional week to the trip, I sought out the less-touristed regions of the country. I settled on a week in Emilia-Romagna, a region squeezed between Tuscany and the Veneto that is the birthplace of some of Italy’s most iconic foods—balsamic vinegar, parmesan cheese, parma ham, tortellini, lasagna… the list goes on. Wary of trying to cram too much into one trip (a character flaw of mine), I decided to save Campania, Sicily, the Dolomites, Lake Como, and other places for future trips. I don’t think I’ll ever have enough of Italy.

And so, my itinerary came to look like this. Four days in Bologna, which serves as a convenient launch-point for day trips to other Emilian cities. Two days in Ravenna, briefly the capital of the Roman Empire during Byzantine times and home to astounding mosaics. Then one night in Florence, which would get me near my Tuscan destination. Then eight days at the Dievole Wine Resort in Chianti, Tuscany, home base for the photography class where we would launch day trips to towns throughout Tuscany: Siena, San Gimignano, Pienza, and Radda. Two weeks full of beautiful sights, delectable Italian food, and so much wine!

Follow me on my journey through my next few Sunday posts on Bologna, Ravenna, and Tuscany, plus maybe some more if the mood moves me. Arrivederci for now!

a Tuscan sunrise

2024-11-10
photoessay: the colorful lakes of the canadian rockies

A big part of visiting the Canadian Rockies parks of Banff, Jasper, and Yoho is exploring their various lakes, famed for the array of colors you’ll find among their sundry waters. Lakes in the Rockies come from glacial melt. Glaciers erode rocks, which turn into finely ground particles that suspend in the lake water. The rocky sediments in the water reflect the sunlight, making the water appear striking shades of aqua, turquoise, blue, and green.

Most famous of these is Lake Louise. The Lonely Planet lauds its beauty: “there ought to be a rule in life that no one should depart this mortal coil without first visiting Lake Louise” (p. 102). Compared to the typical iconic shots of the lake, this is taken from the opposite shore, coming the Plain of Six Glaciers. We accessed this side of the lake by first hiking up the Lake Agnes trail, stopping for a bit of tea and scones at the Lake Agnes Tea House, and descending past the Beehives to the glacial plain. Here in the distance, you can see the famous Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, originally constructed in the 1890s.

Lake Louise, seen across the glacial plain

For a slightly different, but no less beautiful hue, Yoho National Park boasts Emerald Lake. Red canoes dot the water, making for a picturesque contrast with the jade waters. We circumnavigated Emerald Lake on our first day in Canada. It was a easy, flat walk, perfect for adjusting to the elevation of 4000-5000 feet.

Emerald Lake, with red canoes

Peyto Lake is an even purer shade of azure. It can be reached by a short but steep hike up from the Icefields Parkway, which links Banff and Jasper National Parks.

Peyto Lake

Bow Lake doesn’t require a hike at all, just a quick stop on the Icefields Parkway. Here it is in the morning light, serving as an almost perfect mirror for Crowfoot Mountain and Bow Peak.

Bow Lake, a smooth mirror

We hiked around Lake Edith in Jasper National Park early one morning. Here it is reflecting three different hues: the fluffy clouds of the sky, the deep blue of the mountains, and the evergreen of the pines.

Lake Edith, reflecting sky, mountains, and trees

Early 20^th century explorer Mary Schaffer, the first white woman to ever see Lake Maligne, declared it, “the finest view…in the Rockies.” We found it a little bit of a letdown after that kind of advertising, perhaps only because its waters were a bit more muted that day.

Maligne Lake

But waters need not always be blue to have a sort of feral beauty. Here is shallow Lake Jasper, its muddy bed tossed by strong winds before a coming storm.

Jasper Lake, tossed by an approaching storm

2024-09-08
chasing wildlife through the canadian rockies

My friends and I were driving south down Rt 16 toward Jasper. I was sitting in the driver’s side backseat, peering into the distance toward the Athabasca River, looking for wildlife drinking by the riverside.

Nearer to the road, I glimpsed pale shapes moving. They were whitish, or perhaps tan or grey. My brain frantically tried to identify the shapes as we sped closer. Were they mountain goats or bighorn sheep? No. Dogs? No.

As our car drew almost even with them, I looked one directly in the eyes. It was a wolf.

They roamed in a pack of four, heading from the river back towards the mountains.

Our car sped past, and the moment was over. The whole encounter lasted perhaps a couple of seconds, but I will remember it for the rest of my life.

“Those were motherfucking wolves!” We were shouting in the car. “Holy shit!”

We were still moving quickly down a busy highway, and there was nowhere to pull off. But as soon as we could, the driver whipped the car around and returned the way we’d come, hoping to find the pack of wolves again.

It was a fruitless hunt. By the time we made it back, the wolves had already evaporated into their elusive mountain abodes.

Still, the fact that there was no question that we would turn the car around and try to find those wolves again was a friendship-affirming moment, a reminder that I had found my tribe in life.

I was in Canada for a friend’s 40^th birthday. She had decided to spend the whole month of June hiking, camping, and photographing her way through the Canadian Rockies national parks of Banff, Jasper, Yoho, and Kootenay, which span Alberta and British Columbia. I flew from DC to Calgary with another friend to join her for a week toward the end of the month, when she already had a good sense of bearings.

In theory, we were there to hike and see all the sights—the mountains, the lakes, the rivers, the waterfalls. As the wolf story highlights, extraordinary as all of those things were, the wildlife really excited us the most.

On the first day, we went to Yoho National Park and, among other things, hiked around Emerald Lake, with its vibrant waters dotted with red canoes and rimmed by mountains that were still snow-covered in June.

Emerald Lake

By the end of the day, we were disappointed to have seen no wildlife, so the birthday girl (by this time attuned to the movements of the local creatures) drove out toward Lake Minnewanka, where got our first glimpse of elk, grazing in the middle of a field dotted with yellow flowers.

elk near Lake Minnewanka

On day 2, we headed north to Jasper National Park. Less touristed than the more southern parks, Jasper was by far the most fruitful for wildlife viewing. As we drove out of the town of Jasper, we encountered mountain goats on the side of the road. At one point I sighted this guy on top of a rocky crag and cried, “Goat, goat, goat!” to get my friend to pull over for photos.

mountain goat near Jasper, Alberta

That night, when driving back to our campsite near Miette, we saw three black bears, including one tiny little baby foraging by the roadside. (Warning: Photos taken from the safety of a vehicle. Bears are dangerous, do not try to take photos like this if you are in the open.)

black bear near Miette, Alberta

The next day, it was a small herd of bighorn sheep, wading through some tall grasses outside of Jasper and snacking.

bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta

Later some more goats, including this little baby, as we drove south down the Icefields Parkway back toward Banff.

a baby and adult mountain goat on Icefields Parkway, Alberta

The next two days were disappointing, wildlife-wise (and only wildlife-wise… an entire post on Lake Louise is coming.) So the last day of our trip, we drove out to Kootenay National Park, in hopes of catching some last glimpses of creatures… maybe a moose? Or a grizzly? Alas, we drove for hours and only managed to see a few more goats.

a baby and adult mountain goat in Kootenay National Park, British Columbia

There were plenty of things we could have done with our last day. Surrounded by so many natural wonders, what was it that drew us to seek out the wildlife above all else? Why do animals so captivate us?

One could say it’s because we’re city gals, unaccustomed to seeing wildlife on the daily. Maybe people who live out in the wilderness no longer get excited when they see an elk or a bear.

I’m not sure about that explanation. My neighborhood is crawling with squirrels and chipmunks and I suppose they don’t excite me too much. But I also have a family of rabbits that lives in the vicinity of my building and I never fail to get excited when I see them.

Certainly rarity breeds fascination. No matter where you live, encounters with wolves are pretty fucking rare. And if you live in the suburbs of Washington DC, you’re very unlikely to encounter a mountain goat or a bighorn sheep. Still, I sometimes see deer when I’m hiking locally, or visiting friends who live in the country, and I still loved seeing these guys.

a doe and fawn in Jasper National Park, Alberta

Does the fascination come from the danger? The wolves, bears, and even moose are dangerous and engender a healthy sense of fear, even when you’re safely in your vehicle as we were. Is seeking out wild creatures then a form of thrill-seeking, the same as riding a roller-coaster?

Perhaps all of these provide a partial explanation, and they certainly are not mutually exclusive.

I think it’s deeper than that though. I think we seek out our wild animal brethren not because they are exotic, but out of recognition of distant kinship. We dearly love and have even co-evolved with our domesticated pets.

But we are not so distant on the tree of life from our mammalian kin who still roam free in the world’s jungles, forests, plains, savannas, and deserts. It was not so long ago that our ancestors lived among them, hunting prey and avoiding predators as a matter of life and death.

I love photographing wild creatures with my 100-400mm telephoto lens because it lets me get shots like this one.

a lone bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta

Look at this guy. He knows things. Maybe not the things that you and I know. Who knows what wisdom is of value to a sheep? But he is certainly not some dumb beast. He is alive and canny and as interested in me as I am in him.

When we see these guys across a field and they see us, we feel the excitement that we feel in spotting an old friend (or enemy) we haven’t seen in ages across a crowded room. “Oh hey there, fancy meeting you here. It’s been a while.”

Maybe for some of us, those of us who live most distant from the wild, it’s been longer than for those of you who live in cabins in the woods. But I still feel a thrill of kinship when I see my local bunnies.

That is why, as awe-inspiring as mountains and waterfalls are, there is some special excitement to seeking out wild creatures. At least for me. And for my well-chosen friends.

2024-09-01
5 things to do in new orleans other than eating and drinking

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 18^th 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 Street

tucked away on Dauphine Street

a more modest house down Royal Street with baby blue plantation shutters

decorative 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.

trees lining Esplanade Ave

For a future visit: the Garden District.

3. Shops and Galleries

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!

2024-02-04
christmas in the land of the luminarias

In December, all around New Mexico, brown paper bags line the stucco tops of walls, the walkways leading toward front doors, and the edges of gardens. To the uninitiated, this might a strange configuration of objects more commonly used for carrying school lunches.

But come nightfall, the bags come to light, transforming from paper bags to luminarias [1], dazzling Christmas light decorations unique to the American Southwest.[2]

At Christmastime, New Mexico becomes a land of lights, snowcapped peaks, and red chili peppers strung together and hanging from pueblo walls and lampposts.

But Albuquerque particularly leans into the lights. In addition to the traditional luminarias, Albuquerque’s Botanical Garden also hosts the River of Lights. This year’s was the 26^th annual light show. Despite spending almost every Christmas in Albuquerque for over 20 years, I had never been before. Probably because my mother had gone to the River of Lights without me many years ago and declared herself unimpressed.

But over the years it has grown to be something quite spectacular. Now the largest light show in New Mexico, it has even gotten national recognition on the Great Christmas Light Fight on ABC. My mom saw that on the local news one night and decided that this year we had to go.

We were not disappointed. Spread across a 1.5 mile path, the exhibition boasts 800 unique light displays, animated, and 3D sculptures. A family of penguins greeted us upon entry.

Then we strolled through a twinkle-lit savanna.

Strolled by a tree of parrots.

Went back in time millions of years to the Jurassic and gazed up at a brontosaurus.

Watched a cow get abducted by aliens.

Really the whole thing was magnificently done and great fun. It’s also for a good cause! In 2022, the event attracted over 120,000 visitors, raising over $1 million to support Albuquerque’s zoo and associated institutions.

A belated Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year to all! I’ll see you in 2024.

[1] Apparently they are called farolitos in northern New Mexico. My family lives in Albuquerque where they are called luminarias. I’m not from there, so I just learned researching this post that the naming is controversial.

[2] Ok, maybe not anymore. All traditions spread these days.

2023-12-30
the amazing life of humpback whales
Prior to my Alaskan cruise, the only whales I’d seen on whale-watching excursions had been orca, which I’d seen on two separate excursions in the Salish Sea, courtesy the highly recommended Puget Sound Express. In Alaska, I desperately wanted to see some other varieties of whales.

As I mentioned in my first Alaska post, I caught a glimpse of a humpback on the morning of my first day at sea, and I feared this first sighting would be my last. I needn’t have feared. Later that same day, my mom and I were passing through Cellar Masters wine bar. People seated by the windows began gasping and pointing, and we looked out the porthole to see a humpback whale breaching—again, and again, and again.

There are multiple theories on why whales breach. They may be communicating to other whales across long distances, showing off their physical prowess, or just playing. As best I can tell, the scientific consensus has swung behind the former theory, but I swear this particular whale seemed to be performing for us.

icy strait point

In Icy Strait Point, we took a dedicated whale watching excursion that we booked through the cruise line. (Whale watching was basically the only game in town at this port call, aside from eating crab and some shops.)

The guide on our double-deck boat told us that the waters around Hoonah are particularly attractive to humpbacks because it is situated at the confluence of multiple bodies of water, including the outlet of Glacier Bay, making the waters nutrient-rich and full of fish.

It was about a 30 min trip out to the feeding grounds. As we breezed through jade green waters bordered by evergreen-cloaked islands, we passed by a few orca and humpbacks languidly swimming along, sleek backs arching above the water in a curve before a final flick of their tail. I wished the captain would stop for photo opportunities, but he wisely blazed onward to where the real action was.

Once we got to the feeding grounds, the whales multiplied. We lingered for a long time among a herd of about 10 humpbacks, arching and flipping their tails at us.

We also got to witness a phenomenon known as bubble-net feeding, which is a coordinated hunting activity where the whales swim around in a circular motion deep underwater, blowing bubbles. As the bubbles create a “net” that the fish can’t escape from, the whales spiral up until they reach the surface. By now, their nets have created a dense concentration of fish, then suddenly—gulp.

The thing I find most intriguing about this behavior is that it’s not an instinctive behavior. It’s a learned behavior that’s culturally transmitted.

We’re so used to the anthropocentric worldview that describes animals as having “instinct” and humans as having “culture”. If I may adapt my own definition of culture as being “the social behaviors, norms, knowledge, customs, and habits of a group,” then whales totally have culture.

This concept has appeared in some podcasts and documentaries I’ve watched since then—not just about humpbacks, but other marine mammals too—and I’m now officially fascinated by the concept of animals having culture.

After the bubble-net feeding herd dispersed or dove, we lingered for a bit longer, watching a few loner whales, one of whom breached for us. (Sadly, my camera didn’t focus quickly enough, so I ended up with blurry photos of the breach, and a clear shot of the plume of water that erupted as he crashed back into the water.)

kenai fjords national park

Our second opportunity to witness the whales came after we had disembarked in Seward. We squeezed in one last boat excursion to Kenai Fjords National Park (courtesy Kenai Fjords Tours) where we saw more glaciers and lots of wildlife, including sea lions, harbor seals, puffins, murres, seagulls, one bald eagle… and lots more humpbacks and orcas.

If the whale-watching in Icy Strait Point was spectacular, in Kenai Fjords it was something even beyond that. It was a mostly sunny, placid day, and the waters were smooth. It was almost as if the whales relished the opportunity to soak up some sun rays, because they just kept appearing, and we witnessed bubble net after bubble net.

After a while we got a sense of the rhythm. When the whales begin making their bubble nets deep underwater, they make an intense sound. Unfortunately, those sound waves don’t seem to transmit above water in a way that is audible to the human ear (at least, I couldn’t hear anything). But the seagulls apparently can see or hear something, because in the minute or two before the whales emerged above the surface, the seagulls started going nuts, squawking and swooping, waiting to capitalize on the rush of fish that was about to emerge to the surface. Link to a video here.

Then the whales would appear, skins gleaming pewter grey in the sun, baleen throats stretching out as they engulfed their prey.

Oh yes, and more breaches, enough that I even caught them on camera this time, although still not that perfect shot at the apex of their arc through the air.

Even the captain remarked that he could have watched this all day, but we had other things to get on to.

Like a herd of sea lions, squabbling angrily on the rocks.

Like a pod of harbor seals, lounging on a bed of seaweed.

Like puffins bobbing on the waves.

Like orcas, gliding through the waters on their own hunting expeditions.

Like murres, the “penguins of the north”, huddling in a rocky crevasse.

But seriously, the whales. I couldn’t get enough.

previous posts on alaska
2023-11-30