(Japan)...Japanese spa hotels, or ryokans, are wonderful things. The rooms are spare but peaceful. Eight mats in a uniform grid pattern surround a low table, where green tea is served on arrival. An anteroom, or sunroom, is behind it, which is narrower but usually situated by a large window overlooking a classical Japanese garden. It contains another low table, often with a sunken pit so legs can dangle comfortably, and some rugs for warmth. Little spoils the walls. A yakuta, or summer kimono, is neatly placed on a low chair. These are what guests wear while in attendance at the single-sex onsen, or hot baths, and at dinners served by staff also wearing kimonos, which are probably more elegant than guests’. Dinners last several hours and involve multiple dishes. Those able to sit cross-legged for extended periods—not your author—fare better. This is all a wonderful entry into Japanese culture, and recently I found a small hotel chain, Hoshinoya  that has tried to mix this traditional way of life with more Westernized traits. For instance, shoes are allowed in most of the public areas (but not the guest rooms), and there is a choice of Japanese, continental and American breakfasts. All said, its hotels—including two hotels planned to open in Mount Fuji and Okinawa—still retain a decidedly Japanese feel.

The Hoshinoya hotel in Kyoto is a dream. Approximately 290 miles west of Tokyo in the Arashiyama district of Kyoto (many of this famed city’s shrines and bamboo glades are in this area), the hotel is accessed by boat from the Oigawa River. A narrow road does go there, too, but the gate to the hotel is blocked, and guests may get the distinct feel of being transported to another world. Children under 12 years old are not permitted. The guest rooms feel Japanese, but there are Western beds and not the usual Japanese futon-style beds that replace the dining table after dinner is finished. Quite often ryokans have poor bathrooms, as guests rarely use these, preferring the communal hot springs that have full washing facilities as well as a cultural immersion (pun intended) that is hard to beat. The hotel itself has 25 rooms that are laid out along a single path of pools, waterfalls and greenery. A common lounge has a public computer, Wi-Fi access, books, coffee and sofas. Guests also have the opportunity to attend tea and incense ceremonies, dressed of course in the yakuta. Small, hidden dining rooms provide another Japanese infusion, and the regional menu does contain some Western hints. The main goal here, though, is just to relax. Temminck’s cormorant, American wigeon, Common pochard and Eastern spot-billed ducks patrol the river, seen from all rooms, or at least they do in February. On the outside of the small front gate and up the hill is the Daihikaku Senkoji temple, built by Suminokura Ryoi, a rich merchant, in the 16th Century. It was closed when I was there, but supposedly the views of Kyoto from it are superb.

The other Hoshinoya hotel is close to the small city of Karuizawa, 100 miles northwest of Tokyo. In winter, the hotel acts as a skiing resort and caters more to families. At this Hoshinoya hotel, everyone is allowed. Indeed, there is even a children’s playroom off the long, thin lounge, which contains books, sofas, coffee and regularly resupplied cookies. The dining room here is larger and has those sunken pits for ease of sitting. Meals here were decidedly Japanese. The hotel’s grounds are sprawling, attractive and surround the 77 villas for 231 guests. Staff row across the large pool to light floating lanterns, and the artificial but pretty waterways generate 30 percent of the resort’s power. A path leads down to an onsen that is free for guests but also used by locals and other vacationers.

One particularly wonderful activity here is stargazing. Guests are driven to a point high in the hills (the area is a nature preserve famed for its birdlife and bears are known, too) where they bury themselves into thick sleeping bags laid on a fancy, round cot and are given binoculars and a hot-water bottle. The hardest thing might be not falling asleep. A guide points out the firmament’s constellations, armed with an iPad for those who cannot find Andromeda, Cassiopeia and Orion, etc. When I visited, both Venus and Jupiter shone brightly, and a telescope showed three of Saturn’s moons. When I traipsed back to this spot in the morning, the stars were gone, but in its place was a tremendous view of Mount Asama, an active volcano that caused a little damage in 2009. Both the Hoshinoya hotels are idyllic escapes and well recommended. Both can be reached by Japan’s famous bullet trains. I loved the fact that on these (and this is probably a common occurrence throughout polite Japan) the conductors and food-cart vendors turn around when they reach the end of the carriage and bow to the passengers who they are about to leave behind.

(Tuscany, Italy)...

(Tuscany, Italy)…The road, the Via Empolese in Cerbaia, that goes alongside the sublime Villa il Poggiale near the small village of San Casciano Val di Pesa seems always to be busy, a small mystery to me, but a step off it onto one of the side roads leads to a nether world (see photo) of olive fields, vineyards, sun-kissed Tuscan farmhouses, narrowing lanes and grassy driveways marshaled by Black redstarts. In November, the smell of olives perfumes the air, and half-hidden men armed with long poles and large blankets move along groves and, their modus operandi escaping me, select trees from which to strip off fruit.

The next day I visited the Fattoria di Maiano (www.fattoriadimaiano.com/en) to see where some of these olives end up. On the other side of Florence, just south of Fiesole, the Miari Fulcis family, made counts and countesses (the current head is a countess, Contessa Lucrezia Miari Fulcis dei Principi Corsini) centuries ago, run this fattoria. It’s the largest farm in the area, and produces the delicious Laudemio olive oil (other oil manufacturers also market their wares with this name, as a collective; www.laudemio.it). Their house—well, mansion—possesses a columned courtyard, a terrace overlooking mazelike topiary, a church, Spinello Aretino’s fresco, La Madonna della Misericordia, and an olive press, called a frantoio in Italian. A tap gushed oil, and you are welcome to dip a finger in the flow. Parts of the movie adaptation of E.M. Forster’s novel A Room with a View were filmed in the main dining room.

One of the countess’ relatives was Lorenzo Corsini, who became Pope Clement XII in 1730. He was responsible for the façade of San Giovanni in Laterano, which is Rome’s cathedral (St. Peter’s is the Vatican’s), and the construction of the Trevi Fountain. Two Benedicts, XIII and XIV, bookended his papacy (I loved writing this sentence). Another relative was St. Andrew Corsini, who died in 1374, was Bishop of Fiesole and once floated over the field of the 1440 battle of Anghiari, which is the subject of the “Lost Leonardo,” a painting by Leonardo da Vinci that has, obviously, disappeared. Some believe it is “hiding” beneath a Giorgio Vasari painting, which, if true, will itself become “lost.” In San Giovanni in Laterano, there is a chapel built in St. Andrew's honour by Clement XII, which obviously was not a coincidence.

Back at the ochre-yellow Villa il Pogialle (www.villailpoggiale.it), I marvelled at never finding my way from my room—Room 1—to anywhere I wanted to go. It was fantastic to get slightly lost and discover new sitting rooms, the kitchen, the back door, the side terrace, etc. It, too, had a sense of mystery about it, which was added to by it being administered by a diminutive Scottish woman from Selkirk.

The road to Florence passes by the village of Pozzolatico and the basilica of San Miniato al Monte (St. Minias on the Mountain), which gives one of the best views of Florence’s Duomo and Campanile. St. Minias was a survivor. The Roman Emperor Trajan Decius disliked him and threw him to the lions, which refused to eat him, so the pontifex maximus decided to take things into his own hands and have the man beheaded. Even this did not stop Minias, who coolly picked up his head and walked up the hill to where his church now stands. He should use such immortal skills to clear the “entertainers” away from another scenic overview of Florence, along the same road, which include an utterly incongruous Chilean pipe band and two Native American dancing “shamans” selling Kachina dolls. Perhaps this is just our new global world, for wandering up the slope, on the auspicious date of 11/11/11 (Nov. 11, 2011) was a newly married Chinese couple surrounded by Chinese friends. The church has some ornate interior decoration, which extends between small details of knights wearing conically shaped helmets while attacking dragons to large frescos completed by Aretino. The exterior stairs leading to the basilica also are dramatic and reminded me slightly (although these stairs lead straight up) of those at Bom Jesus do Monte in Braga, Portugal—probably just because both were coloured white, either of whitewash or Carrera marble.

Back to Pozzolatico, we took the vegetables we had purchased in Florence’s San Ambroglio market and started to prepare lunch at the expansive I Tre Pini (www.ristoranteitrepini.it) restaurant, which is owned by the marvellous named Libero Saraceni (“Free Saracen”). I was in charge of the tomato tapenade soup, and I also helped make ravioli. All of this was possible because I had the great fortune of being on a trip organised by Trafalgar Tours (www.trafalgar.com/usa/bemyguest) on, specifically, its Be My Guest progam, which opens usually closed doors and permits travellers to utterly savour the tastes and notions of a region’s life. Normally, I avoid group tours, but I was so busy, laughing and learning on this trip, none of the usual group tat—monotone guide voices, instantly forgotten facts, half-stabs at visiting anywhere, etc.—was able to seep in. And joy of joys, while we cooked, there was red wine and fried courgette flowers to sip and munch on.

Stomach filled, I investigate Florence. The exterior of the Duomo is quite beautiful, as are the Gates of Paradise on the Battistero di San Giovanni, which is where Dante was baptized. It is a short walk to the Ponte Vecchio, but I’d rather look at that bridge from the adjacent Ponte Santa Trìnita, which was destroyed by the Nazis in Aug. 1944, and see the Vecchio’s colours and shapes reflected in the River Arno, rather than the reflections in the tacky gold on display in its tacky gold shops. Vasari, as well as painting, also built the Vasari Corridor, which connects the Ponte Vecchio with the Uffizi Palace in Florence—just another of the connections that make history and modern life here fascinating and palpable.

(Provence, France)...

(Provence, France)…The TGV train (www.tgv.com) from Paris’ Gare de Lyon station speeds down to Avignon, the main town of the Provence region, at a fairly stunning 180 mph. In Great Britain, my country, I imagine this would be accompanied by destroyed towns, grandiose claims that actually were 20-mile rail tailbacks and forced slow downs caused by town anti-noise committees, while in the United States, my home now, any notion of high-speed rail is met with the same suspicion as if the proposal was to open Communist Party offices in every major city.

The nose-coned train pulled out of the station three seconds late by my watch, which probably was three seconds too fast. The mist was heavy, which made a line of hunters and spot dogs creeping over a rutted field hunting for partridge in Fontainebleau all the more delightful.

Two hours later, the countryside changed dramatically and we headed over the western sections of Rhône-Alpes and onwards to Avignon, a dramatic city dominated by the Palace of the Popes, in which lived all the popes from 1305 to 1378; the city remained the property of the Vatican until 1791, two years after the fall of the Bastille. For another two years after 1378, it was home to the two Antipopes, Clement VII and Benedict XIII. It’s other major site is the ruined Pont d’Avignon, which sticks halfway across the Rhône River and also goes by the name of Pont Saint-Bénezet; to summit it costs an exorbitant €10 (I arrived there five minutes after the last ticket time, thus avoiding me having to ask myself if I would have been too miserly to pay).

Annoyingly, right below the Palace of the Popes was the Provençal Kenny G, tootling away when all tourists wanted was to marvel at the setting sun illuminating in orange the sandstone of the palace’s impressively high walls topped with a 23-foot-high Virgin Mary in gold; later on, Kenny G was replaced by a Beatle, equally droll, who played energetically to a flash mob of Japanese tourists who literally ran to the large main square, the Place du Palais, snapped away, ignored John/Paul/George or Ringo and disappeared.

If I had come here in high summer (it was mid-November), they might have been drowned out by the noise of cicadas. I heard none and saw only one, part of a stained-glass window along a dark street that my camera’s flash only just picked out. The cicada was made popular here by poet Frédéric Mistral, who decorated the covers of his books with them, above the motto—in Provençal—Lou souleu mi fa canta (“The sun makes me sing”).

Visit the Rocher des Doms gardens above the palace for wonderful views, and poke your nose along the narrow streets around the Place Carnot and Place de la Principale.

L’isle-sur-la-Sorgue is a classic Provençal town bordering the Sorgue River, which when I was there was almost overflowing its banks and was running at the fastest speeds anyone could remember. A terrific storm had devastated parts of France and Italy but thankfully preceded me, and all I saw was the damage; several people died, notably in the Italian Cinqueterre area. I ate at the excellent Le Jardin du Quai (www.danielhebet.com) and met the young but Michelin-starred Daniel Hébet, who showed me how to make macaroons. His restaurant is an oasis of peace in what is a pretty peaceful place anyway, famous for its antiques. It was also here where one of my childhood heroes (and I am no chef of note) Keith Floyd, the rakish TV presenter who progressively got more tipsy as his cooking programs went on, had a restaurant, probably just called Restaurant, like many of his others, in the late 1970s.

Aix-en-Provence is truly delightful. Head there. Wake up early in the morning and walk through its neat, attractive, revealing streets to the Place du Verdun and Pôle Judiciare for an Aladdin’s Cave of fresh produce. Very early, stall holders are more likely to hand out little pieces of food. One huge table contained at least 10 different species of my favourite food, mushrooms, and cheeses, sausages and vegetables are displayed so beautifully, it seems mean to actually buy any and spoil the arrangements. I did buy a handful of cumin-rubbed mini-sausages, which I forgot about until I got back to New York City. They were delicious. Another pretty square, sometimes with a market, is Place des Fontêtes, and the place to stay is the Grand Hôtel Roi René (www.accorhotels.com/gb/hotel-1169-grand-hotel-roi-rene-aix-en-provence-mgallery-collection/index.shtml) to the south of this compact city; I tried to find the café where Paul Cézanne and Emile Zola used to take their coffee, but I could not, and then ran out of time.

I did run out of town along the Cours des Arts et Métiers to the eastern fringes of town. A road called Chemin de Beauregard climbs uphill and past villas of increasing beauty, before narrowing. Asphalt led to cracked asphalt and then gravel and large stones, the hedge to either side closing in, too, and then brushing both shoulders. I thought I was lost but then saw two cars parked with their backs to me, so assumed a larger road lay close. It did, as did a weathered, wooden sign saying that La Tour César was a 20-minute walk. The roads here are sunken slightly, the birds tweet (November was suddenly very clement) and all is pleasing. The medieval Tower of César I can find few notes on, but it seems to guard the city’s eastern approaches at the beginning of the lofty Luberon Mountains, dominated by Mont Ventoux, which rises more than 6,000 feet, sees the Tour de France on occasion (the last grueling time in 2009) and was painted by Cézanne on numerous occasions. Cezanne also painted the Tour de César, from his perch on the Bibémus Plain, but his rendition shows it sitting on a bare hillside. Today all is trees, the path going straight up a ridge in the Luberon foothills, circling the tower and heading off to the left.

Another stop was the gorgeous Château la Dorgonne (www.chateauladorgonne.com), which I was told meant “house of the shepherd’s pie” in French. Part of the Côtes du Luberon appellation, between the Cavalon and Durnace rivers, this organic vineyard near the town of La Tour-d’Aigues produces a wonderful red, and I drank from a 2009 bottle. A Berber woman with small crosses tattooed on her chin (see photo above) and forehead raked leaves and told me that she had worked for the owners for 20 years, one of which looked very much like Prince William.

A perfect day ended after visiting the mountainside town of Gordes with a visit to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, where the Sorgue river begins. I popped up to the source between my appetizer and main course at Hostellerie le Chateau (the brave among us chose frogs’ legs), and even in pitch blackness the force of the spring emerging from the hillside can be felt, seen and heard. This village was called by the Romans Vallis Clausa, or Closed Valley, and I like that very much.

(St. Kitts & Nevis)

(St. Kitts)…The island-nation of St. Kitts & Nevis (www.stkittstourism.kn; www.nevisisland.com) was a revelation. There are hardly any tourists, at least not in mid-July, the people are wonderful, and the scenery is resplendent. Added to this is the fact that really there is only one hotel, the 380-or-so-room St. Kitts Marriott (www.stkittsmarriott.com), which sits on North Frigate Bay, the bony part of an island that essentially is shaped like a chicken drumstick—although I thought I’d be creative and also suggest that it looks like a pregnant seahorse. The other hotels on the island run to small plantation-style retreats and a number of non-chain properties. Nevis (more of which later) has the celebrated Four Seasons (www.fourseasons.com/nevis), as well as the gorgeous Montpelier Plantation (www.montpeliernevis.com).

I climbed St. Kitts’ highest spot, Mount Liamuiga, a volcano that has lain dormant for 1,800 years. “Liamuiga” means “fertile land” in the extinct language of Kalinago, and the name replaced Mount Misery. It is steep, the one path climbing over rocks and roots, even through a mini-ravine. Green vervet monkeys can be spotted (introduced by the French in the 17th century), and if lucky (as I was) the rare, skulking Bridled quail-dove (see photo above), which I spotted in a side ditch off the path a quarter of the way back down from the volcano’s peak. Once spotted, though, it just sat there, and I got within 10 feet. The path up ends at a small peak of boulders that once climbed gives a great view of the volcano’s crater lake, which I also saw as my plane neared the island’s airport.

The climb was steep, and as I ate my picnic lunch an opportunistic mongoose (another introduced pest) ate discarded scraps. These critters are everywhere, and most people know the story of how they were introduced to many colonised islands essentially to take care of the burgeoning problem of rat (yet again, also introduced) infestation. That plan was a dismal failure, as rats are nocturnal, while mongoose are diurnal, but both species liberally eat birds’ eggs, and the birds themselves if given half a chance. This misguided adventure has seen hideous ramifications to the fauna of the Hawaiian Islands.

The Liamuiga hike is an all-day jaunt, but it is certainly worth the toil. The Dutch island of Sint-Eustatius (aka Statia) can be seen, as can—only very clear days—the French-Dutch island of Saint Martin/Sint-Maarten.

While the Liamuiga area is lush, receiving most of the island’s rain, the southeastern peninsula, which starts at the southern end of North Frigate Bay, is drier. I ran there one afternoon, and the small road is steep, although rewarding. The road loops around at several spots, and lonely beaches can be reached. The view of Canoe Bay was especially beautiful, a rich, verdant, tiny valley appearing bright green. It really looked like something that travellers might attach the proper noun “Eden” to. Three small mountains dot this peninsula that goes to Great Salt Pond and Major’s Bay, where a ferry departs across the two-mile Narrows to Nevis. More ferries leave St. Kitts’ capital Basseterre, a small town that almost is gone in a blink. Several remote beach bars are perfect places to spend a morning, such as the Reggae Beach Bar (www.reggaebeachbar.com) on Mosquito Bay (not as ominous as it sounds) and the Shipwreck Bar (www.shipwreckbeachbarandgrill.webs.com) on a particularly pleasant stretch of South Friars Bay.

The sister island of Nevis was becoming a minor obsession with me. I had run along the peninsula essentially to hop on the 20-minute ferry (the ones from Basseterre take 45 minutes), but the eight-kilometre-long road was steeper than I imagined, so I saw that I did not have sufficient time. On other days, the ferry times all were not convenient, so the nearest I got was a catamaran ride on Leeward Islands Charters (www.leewardislandscharters.com) that sailed past a couple of wrecked ships and the end of the peninsula, to within sight of the tiny Booby Island (named after a genus of bird) and to within 200 feet of Nevis—but not to Nevis. Another time perhaps!

Probably the most interesting historical site on St. Kitts is Brimstone Hill Fortress (www.brimstonehillfortress.org), which sits in Liamuiga’s shadow. It is a wonderful spot, small enough that it all can be seen but large enough that you do not need to see it with anyone else, and, although not immediately noticeable, there are overgrown paths that allow you not to retrace your steps on the relatively steep hills. The British built the fortress (or at least its slaves did), but the French ruled it, too. Both nations, and, a little before, the Spanish, fought over these islands, only seemingly announcing peace when together their desire was to kill off the indigenous inhabitants.

The top of the fortress gives a great view, and some 17th-century graffiti can be seen. A view of the island's cricket ground can be seen, too. My driver, Scotty, claimed he was the closest St. Kitts ever got to a Test Match cricketer for the West Indies. This is a source of shame to the island, another guide, Thenford Grey, telling me that the only player from St. Kitts to do so was Joey Benjamin, who actually played for—gasp!—the England team, and only once for them. Even more painful is the fact that Nevis has produced two or three. As many tourists to St. Kitts are Americans, this painful history needs not even to be mentioned.

Several American airlines make direct flights.

(Valencia, Spain)…Valencia is Spain’s third-largest city, but in terms of tourism, it is way down this beautiful country’s list, far smaller places such as Toledo, Córdoba and Santiago de Compostela out-muscling it. You get the impression that the Valencianos rather like it that way. Tourists do come, and they walk to the walled old town, El Centro, and along the Turia Gardens, which used to house the city’s river until a devastating flood in 1957 persuaded city burghers to alter its course. At the southern end of this thin, attractive park full of strollers and runners are native son Santiago Calatrava’s iconic buildings, all white and light, alongside pools and his own bridges—the famous Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències, which includes his L'Hemisfèric, L'Oceanogràfic and El Palau de les Arts Reina Sofía. Friends tell me that many stand outside these edifices, but few go in, which reminded me of Oslo’s stunning new Opera House.

Valencianos consider what they speak to be a separate language, and they spell their city València. Far from me to argue, but local names take precedence over Castilian ones in such areas as Russafa and El Carmen, a trendy, slightly shabby area of the already relatively small El Centro area. The former has squats, narrow, cobblestone streets and the wonderful Caracola restaurant, which I head for every time I go. I am very happy there eating patatas bravas and drinking café con leche. Just outside this area, close to the Torres de Quart towers, is the city’s unsung botanical garden, which for €1 admission on a sunny day might be the best deal in town if you have a coffee and a good book. It felt a little like Buenos Aires, and its proper name is the Huerto de Tramoyeres. Russafa is just behind the train station and bullring on Calle Xàtiva, but it might as well be a moon’s-distance away for many visitors. It’s up and coming, interesting, full of characters and has a cool indoor market. One place I love there, on Carrer de Dénia, is the bookstore-bar, Slaughterhouse (www.slaughterhouse.es), which used to be a butchers, hence the name.

Back in El Centro there are interesting nooks and crannies around the cathedral, and the ornate, renovated post office on the otherwise crowded, to-be-avoided Plaça del l’Ajuntament square is definitely worth a perusal. The area of El Centro reached by crossing the Turia on the Pont d’Aragó bridge and immediately turning right will have you amid far fewer people, at least until you reach the cathedral and the adjacent Basílica de la Virgen de los Desamparados, or the Virgin Mary’s Basilica for the Abandoned. Two other spots I like are the small Plaza Redonda, round as its name would suggest and which locals call El Clot, or The Hole, which I also like, and, if here on a Thursday, the weekly water tribunal, an ancient court in which seven city elders pass judgement on disputes between farmers concerning water. Every time I have been to Valencia, no one has stepped up with a complaint, so all I have seen are black robes, chairs, questioning looks and a shrug of the shoulders as they go back indoors from where they’ve come from for a glass of wine. This court, on the Plaza de la Virgen, is regarded as the oldest democratic institution in Europe and was originally a Moorish initiative.

One of the cool things about Valencia for the independent traveller is that it did not even reach the levels of tourism it enjoys today until well after its small airport—Manises—built an underground rail system in the late 1980s. That means you can get straight from the airport into the middle of town in 20 minutes or so. Continue on until the station called Maritim-Serreria, very close to the Mediterranean Sea. This is the getting-off point for the Roma area of the city, Cabanyal, which is a grid of thin streets and colourful houses. The northern part is threatened by a road that will extend Avenida de Viscente Blasco Ibáñez another 400 metres to the sea so that people can reach the beach one minute more quickly than they would have done. That avenue is named after the author (largely forgotten in English-speaking circles) of Los Cuatro Jinetes del Apocalipsis (The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse), who was born in the city. Cabanyal (see photo above) was a village of fishermen, and it was here that were originally developed the distinctive Valenciano houses called barraques, which now can only be seen (and very few of them) on the large marsh of Albufera to the south of the city. The Albufera grows the bomba rice that is the key ingredient of paella, the most-known dish from the region.

A little south of Cabanyal, close to the port, is the district of Bétero, which has two museums of note. I am not generally a fan of museums, but I like strange ones, and the Museo de Arroz (Rice Museum; http://www.museoarrozvalencia.com/) certainly qualifies. For an odd reason, there are lots of Spanish posters of classic Hollywood films on the walls of its three floors, and I can only think they’re there because threshing, winnowing and watering equipment for rice, with descriptions in a language you may not read, aren’t exactly riveting, or it might be that it is a temporary exhibit; better is the Museo Atarazanas, which is in an old warehouse with arches, art and plenty of light. Museums are free on Sundays. Just behind is the Plaza Tribunal de las Aguas, which might suggest that this was the original site of the water court, not where it is held today in the city centre.

Another less-visited area is Benimaclet, which has a similar feel to Bétero and Cabanyal and can be walked to on a slightly circuitous walk back to Russafa and El Centro. This is the traditional place to drink orxata (in Castillian, horchata), a summer drink of water, sugar and chufa nut, a root plant, also known as tigernut. When it’s hot, a glass of this and a chorizo sandwich is bliss.

(Toronto, Canada)...Perhaps of any city in the world, currently there are more construction cranes in Toronto that any other—and I have recently been to China and Central America. There is a boom going on in Canada’s business city, and money—a lot of it Asian—is being invested in condos and other real estate, even in formerly run-down, ignored districts such as Ossington and West Queen West, a mile and two miles, respectively, west of Downtown. These areas also are known for being artistic hubs, too, and the question on everyone’s lips is how Art can sit pretty with Commerce.

Artists traditionally survive in gritty neighborhoods, but today, that does not mean Ossington and West Queen West are areas to be avoided. Trips to Toronto’s burgeoning arts scene will richly reward you.

Both are safe, along the lines, say, of New York City’s Alphabet City and London’s Hoxton Square and Clerkenwell. The catalyst for the areas’ development was the 2004 appearance of two hotels—The Drake and, very shortly afterwards, the Gladstone—both in West Queen West. Both have art at their core. The Gladstone (www.gladstone.com), with 37 different, artist-designed rooms, and in a building dating to 1889, has a bar with a sound stage, a room off that with weekly arts classes, changing gallery exhibitions on the 3rd floor, an events ballroom, a delightful, sunny coffee and dining room and a stand-alone gallery space on the 2nd floor. One accommodations room—by far its most popular—has neon covering its window, and an inside wall and outdoor roof are covered in living grass. Staying at this hotel makes you feel your inner artist.

The 19-room Drake (www.thedrakehotel.ca) is equally celebrated and slightly better known. It has a club called Drake Underground, which as its name suggests puts on up-and-coming acts, and the Hey Loft and Sky Yard, an exciting bar connected to an outdoor space featuring art and a movie screen. Art dots the hotel, and the owners, like those of the Gladstone, rehabilitated a Victorian building whose best days were far behind it.

To get an insider’s view of the Ossington and West Queen West areas, book an individual or small group walking tour with the wonderful, informative Betty Ann Jordan of Art Insite (www.artinsite.com). Jordan is an arts journalist and artist who knows the players and can explain the art on show—occasionally the artists on show, too—in the areas’ more than 200 galleries. My favorite stops were the art galleries of Katharine Mulherin (www.katharinemulherin.com) and the photography gallery of Stephen Bulger (www.bulgergallery.com), who represents, among others, Larry Towell, Canada’s only member of the exclusive Magnum group of photographers and some of whose images, collected in his book The World From My Front Porch, I could have stared at all afternoon.

Of course, what is on view changes all the time, which is just more of an excuse to keep returning. One gallery displayed an array of small robots that only moved into action when the sun heated their solar panels; parts of this show were sped-up film of the robots (showing when they did finally spring into action) and hefty black books containing the coding information required for it all to happen and make sense. It was art in 3D, perhaps an analysis of Plato’s notion of forms, although a philosopher—which I am not—might be better suited to comment on this.

West Queen West and Ossington also are great shopping streets—culturally so: Clothing, books, art, of course, and even a store selling only punk-rock records, that is, vinyl, not compact discs.

A grand park, Trinity Bellwoods, sort of separates the two areas and is well worth a walk. Surrounding it are Portuguese and Chinese communities, and tucked behind a park building, seemingly forgotten, is a statue commemorating Simón Bolívar, the liberator of South America. When waking through parks or shops gets too tiring, a great coffee shop to spend half an hour is El Almacen (1078 Queen St. W.), a welcoming Argentine spot that features yerba maté, a popular South American tea-like infusion.

And, if you walk all the way down Queen St. W. through West Queen West and Ossington, you will reach the more familiar Toronto of the CN Tower and the Hockey Hall of Fame; but apart from the Carousel Bakery, for peameal-bacon sand­wiches in the St. Lawrence Market, and a quick sortie around the new Santiago Calatrava-designed Allen Lambert Galleria building for its light-infused, arched spaces, I think I will stay in the grittier neighborhoods, with the proviso that I could leave again to eat at the splendid Ame restaurant (19 Mercer St.; www.ame.com), where chef Guy Rubino makes some of the best sushi on earth.

Yes, other than those reasons, I’ll stay to the west of downtown. After all, something artistic is currently going on.

(Curaçao)...The Southern Caribbean island of Curaçao, poking out of the continental shelf of South America, 40 miles north of the coast of Venezuela, is part of the Netherlands Antilles, six West Indian specks that also include Aruba, Bonaire, Sint-Maarten, Saba and Sint Eustatius. Americans know well of Curaçao’s most famous son, baseball player Andruw Jones.

The main gripe heard here is how Curaçao, the largest of the six, ends up paying for all the others (it’s probably a little more complicated than that, but that is what one hears time and time again from the grumblers), especially in the years since Aruba became an autonomous province still linked to the parent country, The Netherlands, but not to the other five. As of this October, Curaçao will copy this administrational formulation, leaving the bills for the remaining four very small islands on the far larger lap of Holland.

The island’s built-up area is in the middle, around capital Willemstad, and there can be traffic. For peace, tranquility and flavor, head to its far southeastern and northwestern tips (the island is tilted, so that its westernmost and northernmost points and, likewise, its easternmost and southernmost points are very close to each another).

Southeastern Curaçao—Curaçao comprises two islands, Curaçao itself and Klein, or Little, Curaçao, a sliver that it is possible to amble around in a very, very slow hour. One person owns all the eastern portion of the “mainland” island, which remains unsullied and results in Klein Curaçao being unsullied, too. To get to Klein Curaçao, passage on a boat is needed from any of the harbors and inland bays closer to Willemstad. I caught one organized by Ocean Encounters (oceanencounters.com), the diving outfitters affiliated with the 350-room Hyatt Regency Curaçao (curacao.hyatt.com), which opened on the formerly empty Santa Barbara Beach, east of Willemstad, in April, with two restaurants and a large spa. Our two-deck boat had space for approximately 40 people and was fairly stable, but if you suffer from seasickness, you might remember to pack the Dramamine, as the channel between Curaçao and Klein Curaçao, like many channels all over the world, can be choppy. Usually is it possible to unfurl the sails in one direction, which provides for a slightly more comfortable crossing. It took us two hours to get there.

Klein Curaçao has no permanent houses, merely a small row of fishermen’s shacks. Some are in ruins, even though one still sported a framed painting on a tatty wall open to the elements. No fishermen were around, although maybe they had already finished for the day. A couple of shelters have been built for the sun-lovers, snorkelers and scuba-divers who come here. The scuba-diving is drift-diving along the island’s reef with one diver towing a surface buoy so that the boat captain can keep an eye on the position of the submerged. There are two interesting things on the island. A ruined lighthouse, with a red roof and peeling dusty-rose walls, was built in 1850 and again in 1879 and 1913, which might be testament to the winds and storm surges hereabouts, though Curaçao officially is outside the hurricane belt (Hurricane Omar brushed it in 2008). This really is a desert island, with pure water, views of only sea to every direction and abandoned buildings that suggest, quite reassuringly, that not every speck on earth is meant for habitation. The white beaches and cerulean sea evoke gasps of happiness.

Northwestern Curaçao—The area around Dorp Westpunt seems tailor-made to assist relaxation. Its beaches—Forti, Grote (Large) Knip, Kleine (Small) Knip, Jeremi and Lagun—are pocket handkerchief-size strands wedged between coral coasts that reveal amazing snorkeling yards from the shore. If you had not enough imagination to realize the forces of nature over millennia, you would swear that the tourism bureau had cut these minute playgrounds right into the coastline every mile or so for the express benefit of tourists. Usually at each beach are a small concession shack and five or six upturned rowboats. Wake up early enough and you might have one of these beaches to yourself. My base was the Lodge at Hura Kolanda (kurahulanda.com), close to the spot called Nordpunt, or North Point.

The hotel has 74 accommodation units in either rooms or suites that all sit on a bluff with private patios. Thatch-roof and waterside bars and restaurants lend the requisite tropical feel, and steps lead down to Kalki beach (its stony composition helps make for clearer water) and the dive shop affiliated with the property. Even if you do not scuba-dive, visit Ocean Encounters West (oceanencounterswest.com), which has the nicest diving set-up I have seen, with its own bar-restaurant right by the pier that allows divers to avoid having to be away from the action. It can also take you to the amazing Blue Cave, where snorkelers swim beneath a ridge that clears heads by less than a foot into a cavern where, bobbing on the surface or with mask submerged, awaits a glorious subterranean world of dancing, blue-white light and, if lucky, as I was, large lobster and gorgeous drumfish.

A drier world awaits at the nearby Shete Boka National Park. (“Shete Boka” is an interesting introduction into the world of Papiamento, the language spoken in Aruba, Bonaire and Curaçao, as well as Sint Eustatius, a combination of Portuguese, Arawak, English and Dutch. I speak Spanish to some degree, and as I was told the name Sheke Boka means “Seven Mouths,” I can quite easily see the Spanish words “siete” and “boca” and (I’ve looked this up) the Portuguese words “sete” and “boca.”) There are seven mouths here, but the northern coast, literally right around the corner from Dorp Westpunt, is not for swimming, the waves crashing through eroded, rocky inlets with the occasional blowhole. Up on the arid shelf are views of cacti, thorn scrub and Curaçao’s highest point, Mount Christoffel, which rises 1,230 feet.

A couple of other local spots should be sought out. The first is St. Peter’s, the church in Dorp Westpunt, that has a painting on it of St. Peter holding an oar, which caused me to do a double take when I drove by it, while the second is Jaanchie’s a restaurant that is notable for bird feeders (outside) that attract Yellow orioles, Troupials—colored orange and black—Rufous-collared sparrows and strange-looking Bare-eyed pigeons, the black circles around their eyes reminding me of old Hanna-Barbera Tom & Jerry cartoons in which hapless Tom is tricked by wily Jerry into looking through an ink-stained telescope. The restaurant is also colorful, and a whole afternoon spent here is an afternoon not wasted. The food has received mixed reviews, but I loved the conch, a usually tough dish that here is very tasty. The shrimps looked like the frozen kind, however, and if you choose the iguana (yes, it tastes like chicken) as a soup or a main dish, you will undoubtedly be rewarded with a visit from the restaurateur himself who will explain with a wink in his eye it supposed aphrodisiacal qualities. (They do not serve keshi yená at Jaanchie’s, but if you can find it, choose it. Literally translated as “stuffed cheese,” this dish has its origins in the days of slavery, when the slave owners would import Dutch cheeses and leave to their slaves only the rinds. The slaves would secretly reheat the rinds, which still contained a little cheese, and fill them with whatever was on hand. Today only a small handful of restaurants prepare this dish, and the recipe has been updated for more civilized times, most notably in that the filling is wrapped in larger amounts of cheese, which also now is soft. I ate a curry-flavored one at the Restaurant & Cafe Gouverneur De Rouville, which is on the Otrabanda side of Willemstad and looks out at the city’s famous riverfront, filled with chicken and vegetables. Here is a recipe—kuminda.com/viewrecipe.php?id=1051952295.)

(Grenada)...Sitting up to my waist in water in the azure, cerulean and turquoise waters of Grenada’s Morne Rouge Beach, not another soul in sight, the edges of the bay arcing green and proud, I realized why until lately I had never been utterly enamored of the Caribbean: Many of its beaches are too straight of line and the countryside lacked green and topography. St. Lucia bucks that trend, and Grenada completely destroys it. I am eager one day to discover Dominica, which I am told offers similar delights.

Grenada is far to the south of the West Indian archipelago. Thus, it receives fewer tourists. The island, in turn, does not seem obsessed with tourism, although it is its largest industry. All 100,000 Grenadians have access to every beach, and no hotel or building can be—this is not unique to this island—higher than the tallest palm tree. The beaches tend to be small and postcard-perfect. The largest beach, Grand Anse, is a little over two miles in length but still does not get inundated, although when the cruise-ship season starts in late October (it ends in late March), it must be a little more busy. Another plus: Both Morne Rouge and Grand Anse are 10 minutes by taxi from the international airport at Point Salines (the fare is Eastern Caribbean S19 ($7)).

St. George’s, Grenada’s capital, is a picturesque port of 20,000 people that some call the Portofino of the Caribbean. Praise indeed, and it is very pleasant, Wharf Road leading around its harbor, called the Carenage. Parts of it have been dubbed San Francisco for its very steep streets, and dominating the skyline are several churches (the Anglican ones bear large clocks) and Fort George, where in 1983, political bickering ended with the execution of Prime Minister Maurice Bishop, an act that led to the American invasion. Bishop’s name now graces the airport (the building of which he instigated), and snippets of graffiti still thank the United States for its intervention.

Today, that is old history for most, although the introduction of a sales tax, where before there never has been one, ensures that politics here remains heated, although much, much, much less prone to serious consequences. Tourism is a joy here, and the population is very educated.

A drive to Grand Etang Forest Reserve is a perfect alternative to the sublime beaches. Call hiking guide Telfor Bedeau (everyone knows him), a 71-year-old whose fitness will put men half his age to shame. One popular walk is though a volcanic crater of farms, through the rainforest and on to Seven Sisters Falls. At times the walk is steep, but the reward is great, two dramatic waterfalls filling your sightline. Adventurous holidaymakers can walk for 30 minutes up through the rainforest and jump down all the falls. Bedeau explains the fruits and spices seen along the way. This is done with a young man who calls himself Super Butterfly. He will tell you how to jump and where to jump, and I was told the whole experience is exhilarating. I was content swimming in the warm river water at the base of waterfall number six, and it really was warm in the September sun. A perfect picnic spot is a short drive away at the lake of Grand Etang (the accent that should be on the “E” I never saw used), whose name means Great Pond.

Grenada is, of course, called the Spice Island, known for spices, herbs and fruits such as cinnamon, ginger, all spice, cloves, cocoa, bay and, most importantly, nutmeg. In 2004, Hurricane Ivan destroyed many nutmeg trees (it smashed everything else here, too), and only now are farmers beginning to again make money from this iconic plant, and it is testament to the strength and versatility of Mother Nature that the island again looks luxuriant. Another attractive waterfall is at Concord.

A culinary tour is well worth doing. Start at Dougaldston Estate, near the small town of Gouyave, where Clifford Bridgeman, an elderly Grenadian, will show visitors that nutmeg contains two spices, the seed, which we call nutmeg when grated, and the seed’s thin reddish covering, known as aril, which we call mace. The long drying building at Dougaldston is wonderfully old. Outside, large trays covered with brown cocoa beans perch on heavy iron train tracks; inside, everything is equally ancient with dusty shards of sun shimmering a century of smells.

Perhaps some of these cocoa beans end up at the award-winning Grenada Chocolate Factory in a colorful, small building in the St. Patrick’s Parish village of Hermitage. It makes only a few types of chocolate (the cocoa content is between 60 and 82 percent), all of which are delicious. I loved the bar called Nib-alicious.

To wash all of this down, aim next toward the Rivers Antoine (pronounced “Rivers Ann-Twayne) Rum Distillery in Tivoli. It is the island’s oldest distillery, dating to 1785, and absolutely nothing looks as though it is any younger. Crumbling walls with 18th century graffiti surround and open up to working waterwheels, heavy machinery made in then-empirical Germany and England and huge piles of sugar-cane husks. A sip of its 75-percent-proof rum is, like the Seven Sisters Falls, for the adventurous. Flu will leave you! Flavored rums cut the potency. None is exported.

Back in St. George’s, dine at the very informal Patrick’s, run by a culinary magician called Karen Hall, who cooks all the food—which just keeps on coming—on eight stovetops. Dishes include locally caught crab, seasoned pork, spiced plantains and callaloo soup made with coconut milk. Callaloo is a green leaf vegetable that some might know as amaranth.

Nature buffs will want to visit Mount Hartman where the national bird, the very rare, reclusive Grenada dove, clings on. Current estimates put its numbers at no more than 200. At certain times of the year, whales glide by.

Hotels range the gamut. Modest but very comfortable, Caribbean-infused and delightfully low-key spots include Cinnamon Hill (Grand Anse Beach) and the new Kalinago (Morne Rouge Beach), while upscale roosts include the all-inclusive Les Sources (Pink Gin Beach) with a spa and upscale restaurant.

(Barbados)…I arrived in Speightstown at 8 a.m. because the bus from Bridgetown was going there, and there did not seem to be another bus waiting to go anywhere else. I was happy I did so.
Speightstown has a laid-back feel of a forgotten, perhaps colonial gem that had its hey day when business was far less regulated than it is today. As my bus curled around the west side of the island—though communities such as Batts Rock Beach, Oxnards, Lascelles and Gibbes Beach, I wondered if this circular island could rightfully be considered part of the Caribbean. Bermuda certainly isn’t, but Barbados also is outside the natural arc of the West Indian archipelago that stretches all the way from Cuba to Grenada. Shamefully I did not have a map, but I rectified that situation by visiting the Cloisters Bookstore, before walking down to a church that stood in the middle of a cemetery and was populated solely by a sleeping Rastafarian.
The town, an inviting mix of friendly locals, peeling pastel paint and fading grandeur, was the site where Admiral Sir George Ayscue, a navy man in the service of Oliver Cromwell, could only defeat the Barbadians, who chose to be loyal to King Charles I, by paying for the services of a Barbadian turncoat and tricking his way onto the island’s soil.
No one was fooled. Seeing what a generally incompetent admiral he was, the locals agreed to charter that technically saw them realign their allegiance but which in practice gave them incredible benefits unheard of in England’s dealings with the “native races,” including the oath that taxes would not be increased without the express written approval of the Barbadians’ representatives. Ayscue proved no more capable later, when his flag ship ran aground and he was forced to surrender and be imprisoned to and by the Dutch.
The only battle he won, according to my research, was the capture of the Scilly Isles, a handful of beautiful rocks off the extreme tip of Cornwall. He was the 17th century equivalent of a modern-day CEO who runs his company into the ground, produces huge savings by the wholesale sacking of his staff, destroys most of the benefits of the formerly healthy pensions scheme and then gets a massive golden handshake and a new job within a fortnight.
Pronounced “Spites-town,” Speightstown has a gentle feel that I instantly liked and reminded me of Falmouth, Jamaica; it once enjoyed a regular boat service to Bristol, England. Barbadians are wonderful people. Walking up steps at a back of a building leading to second-story bar might not be everyone’s choice, but I wanted to go to the balcony that I could see from Church Street, as everyone on it looked like they were relaxed, and within five minutes of being seated, two locals bought me a beer, the first one just appearing from the waitress without the buyer announcing himself. Good people. I returned the hospitality, and it was convivial right to the very last moment I really had to be back on the bus to Bridgetown.
It perhaps wasn’t always so friendly there, the term “Speightstown flattery” being slang for a backhand compliment. I took a smaller bus into the interior, and the bus driver went half a mile out of his way to drop me off at a spot—Pleasant Hill—that was much nearer to my goal, Farley Hill.
This is an interesting, little-visited place that is home to a troop of Green monkeys. Their fur perhaps might be construed as green, and there they were, swinging around the trees over the heads of Tropical kingbirds. The site features a ruined manor house, with gardens, built in the early 19th century by an Englishman called Sir Graham Briggs (with a name like that, I hardly have to say he’s English, do I?). The ruins, which feature in the 1965 film An Island in the Sun starring Sidney Poitier, burnt down in 1966, and then Queen Elizabeth II opened it all up as a national park, which seems curious, as royalty of England rarely is asked to open perhaps still smoldering buildings, but anyway, that year also was the year of Barbados becoming independence, so maybe such trivialities were overlooked. That said, Queen Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert and their son, the future King George V, did stay there, so maybe she just felt like following in their footsteps. In Poitier’s film, it was called  Belle Fontaine, for another reason lost to knowledge.
I walked back to Speightstown, some five miles, and then stopped for lunch in a low-key little place called the Fisherman’s Hut, which featured black-and-white photos of former cricket stars (see photo above). In bustling Bridgetown, I made a beeline to the Jewish synagogue for its oddity value, and then to a very strange statue purporting to be a likeness to Horatio Nelson. It is covered in bird excrement.
Supposedly, Nelson saved Barbados from the French, but many here see no relationship to him and want it removed from its prominent site and replaced by a worthy Bajan. Maybe he is looking so rough because the statue now is two years short of being 200.

(Southeastern Anatolia)…The bazaar in the small city of Şanliurfa was a revelation, a time capsule that is both 11,000 years old (so scholars believe) and modern and vibrant. It is a Kurdish town, and immediately noticeable were the mauve scarves decorating the heads of both men and women. Some boast filigreed patterns in silver thread. The bazaar is the usual maze of alleys with shops, and into one a tailor invited us.
He sat cross-legged on the floor (probably had done since early that morning) and sewed thick sheep fleeces into jackets and waistcoats, whole ordering us tea. The “getting of tea” remains a joyous mystery to me throughout my travels in beautiful Turkey.
Hospitable Turks asked you to join them for tea, and therefore tea was summoned. It would come quickly, with accompanying sugar and spoons, but at no time did I see money exchange hands or anyone come back to collect the tulip-shaped glasses and trays. I was certainly not asked for contributions, and I rather think I would have offended if I had asked.
Perhaps there is a monthly charge? Who knows? Şanliurfa—its name was lengthened with the addition of Şanli, which means “glorious” in Turkish, in recognition of the city’s contribution to Turkish independence against the French—is famous for it being the birthplace of the prophet Abraham, who hid in a cave from the King Nemrut, who wanted to kill every child due to some unfavourable prediction. The cave can be walked to from an attractive area of plazas, mosques, gardens and pools, visitors crouching low beneath a green cloth (separate entrances for the genders) to sip the water that kept the prophet alive. The pools contain hundreds of carp, around which surround legends: If you see a white one, you will go to heaven; if you eat any one, you will be poisoned, for this was the site where Abraham was sentenced to burn by Nemrut but where the fire turned to water and the wood pile turned into fish.
Behind the pools—called the Balikligöl—are restful, idyllic caravansaries where old men talk about the past. The Second Crusade (1145-1149) also started when Islamic forces recaptured the city. It is a fascinating place, with patios opening up to reveal domino-playing, old men and an area of honey-coloured houses where I bought a grapefruit that was the sweetest fruit I’ve ever eaten.
One dinner was had sat on very low, backless seats (better to feel, perhaps misguidedly, that somehow you belong there and can watch the scene unfold without being seen yourself) outside a döner kebabı restaurant, a small hole in the wall, where the jolly proprietor sat outside with us and chopped the ends of and nibbled hot chilies to make sure they would not blow our “foreign” heads out of the bazaar. After hearing horror reports of travellers being mobbed in small, dusty, brown Harran, about 30 kilometres south of Şanliurfa, it came as a wonderful surprise to hardly seeing anyone. Where were they all? Where were the children? In school, it seemed, wearing blue uniforms.
A few residents shepherded sheep in the shade of the ruins of Harran’s university, which is the oldest Islamic university and thus perhaps the oldest on the planet from any faith or nation. Camels plodded around, and hoopoes and Burrowing owls swooped and hopped. Harran is small and poor, which must differ greatly from the 8th and 9th centuries when scholars flocked here to learn about astronomy, religion and medicine, some decades before Islam’s greatest university in Baghdad was even conceived. Beehive-shaped houses dot Harran, but most are used now for storage or tourism.
Numerous tarmac’ed but equally dusty roads crisscross the desert that after not being totally sure where we were continues across the border with Syria to forlorn places such as Büyük Çayli and larger Ceylanpinar. We ate honey on the comb while watching a Lebanese ground agama (Trapelus lessonae), a lizard that almost was indistinguishable from the sandy ground around it. Agriculture has started, thanks to the controversial GAP (Güneydoğu Anadolu Projesi) reservoir and dam project that seeks to tame the Tigris and Euphrates rivers.
We span northwards to the glorious mountaintop town of Mardin. Essentially, at least for tourists, Mardin consists of one street, Cumhuriyet Caddesi, which contains the very comfortable Artuklu Kervansaray hotel. Walking beneath an arch, we admired an ornate doorway, only to be invited in by the owner, an old woman, who introduced us to her son, his wife and their daughter. More tea was served, and more lost-in-translation but heartfelt conversation was swapped, followed by an invite to climb on their flat roof to see the view of the Mesopotamian plain stretching from Mardin all the way, perhaps, to the Golan Heights of Syria and Israel and the crusader and Knights Templar castles of Lebanon. Several restaurants also have rooftop perches, and an antique shop had two kitschy watches bearing former Iraqi despot Saddam Hussein’s face that it would not sell for any price.
The next morning we visited its twisty bazaar and a Syrian Orthodox Church (the Kirklar Kilisesi) for which the keeper of the key suddenly appeared. This interests me, the word “kirklar.” In Scandinavia and Scotland, churches have a similar etymology. Atatürk wrote out a Roman-style Turkish alphabet on a napkin in the 1920s, but presumably the word for church had a pronunciation in the Ottoman dialect of Arabic. Answers, please. We were told that Pope John Paul II visited. We had the dark, dusty place to ourselves. Carved above the entrance is the church’s date of formation: 569.
Paintings of the church’s holy fathers, the earliest ones quite comical, line the walls. Approximately six miles away along a thin road is the far larger Syrian Orthodox monastery of Deyrulzaferan, that is, the Saffron Monastery, so named for its yellowish hue. Until recent years this was the seat of the Syrian Orthodox Church’s patriarch, who now lives in Damascus. Obviously, Damascus is in Syria, so that fact speaks volumes concerning this area of Turkey’s links to the religions and peoples of wider Mesopotamia. Deyrulzaferan has a large courtyard, two floors, a church and two remaining brothers who speak Aramaic, the language, supposedly, of Jesus Christ. There are also nuns. One room contained the crumbling remains of two small sedan chairs in which the patriarch was ferried. A mountain with caves stands behind.

(Martinique)…Looming high over Martinique is Mount Pelée, which is in the record books as being the third worst volcanic eruption in history. Perhaps there have been worst since, but as—generally—mankind is better able to predict, avoid and plan for such disasters (perhaps), maybe the death tolls have been reduced.
When it last erupted in 1902 (it blew its top twice that year), it killed more than 29,000 people, a tragedy only dwarfed by two 19th-century eruptions in Indonesia, including legendary Krakatoa. I drove up to St. Pierre, the town right beneath it that was swallowed whole.
Tour guides here tell delighted crowds that the only person to survive was a rum drinker who due to intoxication was inside a cell that protected him. Thus, their argument goes, rum can save your life…please buy a bottle in duty-free.
The truth is that this lucky man, Louis-Auguste Cyparis, who went on to be a star attraction in P.T. Barnum’s circus, was in jail because he had inflicted a wound on a friend with a cutlass, a less romantic tale; in fact, a second man survived, too, who was fortunate enough to live on the edge of town.
Today, fewer than 5,000 people live in St. Pierre, and the volcano is deemed one of the world’s most likeliest to yet again explode. I had arrived in the island’s capital Fort-de-France on a Sunday morning, and all was closed, except the large cathedral, the Cathédrale Saint-Louis de Fort-de-France, which was built in the 17th century but has been repeatedly set up again following fires, volcanoes, earthquakes and indifference.
Another more interesting church is just up the inland road on the way to the botanical gardens of Balata. Modeled on the Basilique du Sacré-Cœur in Paris, the Sacré-Cœur de Balata is smaller than the original but to the same scale.
Back in St. Pierre, there are still reminders of that fateful day. An amphitheatre lies empty with scorched walls, inoperable cannons stand facing a sea that provided far less threat than the land behind it and a statue remains headless. In his 1903 book, Mont Pelée and the tragedy of Martinique: A Study of the Great Catastrophes, Angelo Heilprin, who visited in May and August of the fateful year writes that “The landscape was barren as though it had been graven with desert tools, scarred and made ragged by floods of water and boiling mud, and hardly a vestige remained of the verdant forest that but a short time before had been the glory of the land. Great folds of cloud and ash hung over the crown of the volcano, and from its lower flanks issued a veritable tempest of curling vapor and mud. Lying close to its southern foot, and bathed in the flame of a tropical sunshine, was all that remained of the once attractive city of Saint Pierre—miles of wreckage that reached up from the silent desert of stone and sand, showing no color but the burning grays that had been flung to them or that had formed part of mother earth.”
Looking down at the town, the first thing I noticed was a toy train shuttling tourists along the front. Small grey waves lapped at the shore, and a local in a short-sleeved white shirt stood inside a school building and conducted an unseen orchestra. Everything seems normal, but scientists studying this peak—translated literally as Bald Mountain—say that it remains one of the most active volcanoes on the planet, despite not having blown its top for more than a century.
Climbing up the side of the volcano, everything looked green and idyllic. The landscape has names here such as Le Morne Rouge, Le Morne Vert and Gros Morne, monikers that speak of beauty, power and natural colour from the bowels of the planet.
Just before St. Pierre is the seaside village of Le Carbet, where supposedly in 1502, four centuries exactly to the date of the disaster, Christopher Columbus landed on his fourth voyage to what he still might have thought was Japan. A little farther towards the looming volcano are the Pitons du Carbet mountains on which grow ferns reaching more than 30 feet.
Everything is large here. A fantastic—awesome is a better word, in its true meaning—idea of the power of this volcano was that its ash enveloped, destroyed and sunk a ship out at sea called the Roraima, and there were survivors from that, too. One of them described the scene on Martinique—which has a really wonderful flag, by the way, four snakes twirling around staffs on a blue background with a white cross—saying “No darkness was ever like it. Imagine the darkest night you ever saw, imagine it a thousand times darker than that, and then you may get some idea of that the air was like for fifty miles in every direction from the harbour of St. Pierre.”
I walked around St. Pierre for a couple of hours. It does not feel like a town in imminent danger, but what town would? A grey stone house had been made pretty with a thin staircase of the same material bordered with a postbox-red rail, lush, green potted plants, wooden shutters and a mauve door; the main street curves by prim houses and shops of white, blue and yellow.
Only the sight of wetness on the ground (this is the only place in Martinique where the rains fall steadily, the clouds forming over Pelée and dropping their loads on St. Pierre) and a twin-towered church with flaking stone and rusty, squat steeples give a wider picture of any potential neglect that stems from the always possible futility of nature and the idea of the pointlessness of civic pride in the face of sweeping, sudden cataclysm. Bananaquits and Purple-throated carib hummingbirds flitted around, oblivious to the danger but first to leave if conditions change, wondering why the humans cannot pick up on the differences in the atmosphere and the conclusiveness of the catastrophe to come.

(Belize/Honduras)…Flying is not becoming easier, and on every flight I hear at least once a neighbor complaining how long the flight is. Not every passenger chooses to fly, I know, but I suspect the majority do, and I got to wondering if flights are only as long as the passenger’s desire to get to wherever the flight is heading to.
The experience of flying could be better, but it can always be worse, and I always pinch my leg to remind myself how lucky we are to live in accessible, transportation-minded America, in which New Yorkers enjoy even more flexibility, including three cruise ports. Many of those people I see when I travel do not have such advantages. This is not me being patronizing. It simply is true.
Recently, I came across another example of this good fortune, having reached two towns of the same name and linked by history. In the south of Belize, in Toledo District, close to the border with Guatemala, is a small town called Punta Gorda. That’s Spanish for Fat Point. Flying there—actually, puddle-jumping through this country the size of New Jersey from Belize City to Dangriga to Placencia to Punta Gorda—on a small, low-flying plane, I saw a stately Belizean procession of meandering rivers, thick jungles and thin, sand-colored roads, but nothing that looked like a point, fat or otherwise. There is no reason it has its name, except if you consider where its people came from. Its people are the Garinagu, more commonly known as the Garifuna.
They originally hail from the Caribbean islands, or was it Venezuela and Guyana? No one remembers for sure. The British treated them terribly and threw them out of what is now the island-nation of St. Vincent & the Grenadines. They landed, destitute but still not enslaved, on the Honduran island of Roatán, where they established a small town called Punta Gorda, from where the Belizean town got its name.
Some stayed. Others moved along the coast to Nicaragua, Guatemala and Belize, which is its largest population. The second largest is in Los Angeles. Passing a large clock tower painted with national symbols, the bus driver in Punta Gorda, Belize, popped in a CD of the Garinagu music of Andy Palacio. Its infectious beats swayed like wind-caressed palm trees. Palacio died young, in 2007, and is considered a national treasure. “There’s another Punta Gorda in Honduras,” I was told. I knew that. I had been there, and now I had been to both, but I kept silent. It seemed from what I heard that for many Garinagu going to Roatán was a dream, a pilgrimage of return. I felt slightly self-conscious that I traveled to both Fat Points, especially as it was my British ancestors who kicked them out of their 18th-century home.
Additionally, I saw that it is far, far easier and quicker—but not as much fun—to fly from Belize City to Houston and then back south to Roatán than it is to ferry across from Punta Gorda, Belize, to either the Guatemalan or Honduran coasts and then continue by road to La Ceiba, which sits more or less opposite Honduras’ Islas de la Bahia, one of which is Roatán.
In La Ceiba, travelers must make a choice of catching a second ferry or taking a flight. Thus, most Belizean Punta Gordans have never been to their Honduran parent. The Belizean ferry does not run every day, and even if you sail to Honduras, you still have to pass through Guatemalan waters and customs, adding to the logistical nightmare. In Honduras’ Punta Gorda I stumbled, quite by chance, on the 211th anniversary celebrations of the Garinagu’s arrival on Roatán. Even on this small island, getting to Punta Gorda takes some effort. The island has a scrunched-up spine along which travels its one two-way road, but the hassle was worth it. The party oozed exuberance. There was music, food, dancing and colorful dress.
The town stretches along a dusty main street, a white-sand beach, lines of power cables and palm trees and the blue Caribbean Sea. Its wooden buildings are as bright as the costumes worn on this special day and in memory of distant origins—oranges, blues, yellows; West African designs, conical caps and vibrant bandanas. In hindsight it was also memorable for its guest of honor, who landed a short way down the beach, stepped out of a helicopter and sauntered down, to where we all sat eating seafood stew, wearing a large white Stetson hat and shaking hands. Soldiers twitched to attention, but the mood remained happy.
It was Manuel Zelaya Rosales, the former president of Honduras, who at press time still remains in the Brazilian embassy in the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa after his much-chronicled political troubles, coup d’état, exile to Nicaragua and clandestine return. He was supposed to have come with Nicaragua’s president Daniel Ortega, the Sandinista, but did not due to a Honduran-Nicaraguan dispute concerning maritime borders that rears its ugly head every few years. Maybe Ortega wanted to visit beautiful Roatán, but politics stopped him. Many of Belize’s Punta Gorda citizens are halted by expense and difficulty. There is little that should stop us.