A Hidden Hamlet on the Aegean Sea

New York Times Travel writer, Seth Sherwood, writes about the fun to be had in Turkey. Read about the beaches, history, and more in the article The St.-Tropez of Turkey.

"For the upper-crust Turkish crowd at the club, Bianca, the difference was merely academic. Sitting inside an on-site jewelry boutique doubling as an office, the club’s owner, Emre Ergani, stroked his handlebar moustache and boldly declared that the Champagne-drenched, celebrity-draped French Riviera hotspot was a kindred spirit of Turkbuku, a fishing town whose traditional draws have included red mullet and sea bream.

'St.-Tropez is a place for people of A-plus quality, and so is Turkbuku,' he said, explaining that the town had lately rocketed from picturesque beachfront backwater to second-home haven and party playground for Turkish celebrities. As a glass case holding $7,000 Champagne flutes sparkled behind him, he added that international stars were now getting wind of Turkbuku, too.

'People I know from St.-Tropez are buying houses here,' Mr. Ergani said. 'Turkbuku is taking over St.-Tropez.'

On the face of it, this seems an outrageous claim for this hamlet hidden on the Aegean, the body of water that Homer called 'the wine-dark sea.' Even the most desperate addicts of checkout-aisle literature and live red-carpet reports probably wouldn’t recognize the name, which sounds halfway to Timbuktu and might reasonably conjure images of a Turkish answer to Mötley Crüe."

Trekking the Kuari Pass

Hiking India's Kuari Pass, written by GoNOMAD contributor Mridula Dwivedi, follows Dwivedi's trek through a section of the Himilayas. Read about her journey and see if it's something that you might want to do!

"When we travel, we never book a hotel in advance or decide on a trekking agency to use. While we were walking to a hotel with huge rucksacks (and shoes tied to them), a young guy asked us if we were here to trek?

He pointed out Grand Adventures to us and we were sold on their punch line: 'Where you come from is not nearly as important as where you are going!' We liked their philosophy and decided to give them a try. They gave us good rates and ultimately we trekked with them.

Our guide's name was Sohan Singh Bisht (Sonu and I recommend him highly as a guide) and not only is he an excellent guide but an excellent cook too, a much appreciated quality by both of us! He along with our two horsemen (young lads really, of 18-19 years of age) told us many fascinating stories. And by the time we reached Joshimath, the rains had completely disappeared. We really had a sunny trek this time."

Getting Through the Airport

With the recent terrorism scares, it is no secret that airport security is becoming even more intense. There are many more items that are prohibited from your carry-on. In order to avoid the embarrassment and annoyance of being stuck at the airport's security check-point, check out Kent E. St. John's article Adjusting to Air Travel Changes: "I Will Still Fly the Skies." St. John is the Senior Travel Editor for GoNOMAD and has many great tips for those traveling by air.

"It has been almost five years minus a month since September 11, 2001, a date that changed the way we will travel forever. It is now August 11, 2006, and I am headed to the airport the day after the break-up of a terrorist plot in England to down ten planes.

Once again the way we travel has changed and we must again adjust. Before leaving the house I had to take all liquids out of my carry-on, not a big change for myself but for my wife it meant removing all make-up and cosmetics. This is a seemingly simple thing but it is just the tip of the iceberg. What will it all mean? I hope to learn on this trip across country to San Francisco.

Until things get sorted airport changes will fluctuate, so go to the source. TSA or the Transportation Security Administration is responsible for implementing the changes leaving to reason that their website would be a good place to get last minute info.

Currently the biggest change is no liquids, gels or lotions in your carry-on. That goes for toothpaste, shampoo, cologne, or even that water you just paid $2.50 for in the airport mart. Boarding for Oakland, countless travelers were guzzling coffee, juice and water and chucking the bottles in a can that stands near every gate."

Renewed Enthuthiasm in Hungary's Wine Industry

Cindy-Lou Dale, writer for GoNOMAD, captivates audiences with her writing. Whether describing the regret of a two-hour €6 bus ride or the formidable bus rider sitting beside her, Dale has a way with words that makes you want to read more and more. Read about her Hungarian wine travels in her article Hugarian Wine: Back in the International Spotlight.

"I caught the eye an elderly gentleman hovering at the cellar’s entrance. Evidently he could not decide if he wanted to enter. He walked away, then moments later returned, but still chose to hover with intent.

With business now concluded, Jόzsef loped across and began the ceremonial opening of the first bottle. I refused politely saying I was only here to interview him and that I would not take up much of his time.

'Nonsense,' he growled. 'We cannot speak with the dry mouth.' We all nodded in agreement. A small cry of pleasure escaped me when the bottle finally released the cork."

Surfing Oahu's Famous North Shore

Surfing isn't a hobby; it's an addiction. Tom Austin, contributing editor of Travel + Leisure, takes a look at Oahu's famous North Shore while following those lucky enough to get all the fixes they need there. Read about it in his article World on a Wave.

"Since the halcyon era of the fifties, when a handful of madcap California surfers drove north from Waikiki to stoke themselves silly on their quaint long boards, the world's coolest village has been in the business of myth, churning out visions of paradise. This 26-mile stretch of beach and the surrounding hills—called the country on Oahu—does have very real surf breaks: Hammerheads (named after a nearby shark breeding ground), Himalayas, Avalanche, Marijuana's, Banzai Pipeline, Gas Chambers. In season, from October through March, truly monstrous waves—with faces up to 25 feet tall—turn the North Shore into the mecca of surfing, which pretty much means it also becomes a stomping ground for international pop culture.

I traveled to the North Shore from my hometown of Miami—another tropical frontier that is part of America in only the broadest conceptual sense—and Sunset Beach came as a wistful lesson in what Miami Beach could have been if towering condominiums hadn't devoured the culture of the street. Sunset Beach is a miraculous place, the most organic, pedestrian-friendly, and resolutely democratic town imaginable. America has become a land of gated communities, but Sunset Beach proves that every socioeconomic class can play nicely with others, though many North Shore natives resent that they can't afford beach houses anymore. (A 1,166-square-foot beach house that went for $750,000 in 2000 would now, according to various brokers, sell for $3 million or more.)

The sport of Hawaiian kings has evolved into a multibillion-dollar global phenomenon. Naturally, monolithic corporations are also chasing the youthquake edge of surfing, that mystical yet eminently marketable chimera of sun, fun, freedom, and unemployment. Like hired gunslingers, young North Shore surfers—many of whom were taught the sport by their hippie-dippie parents—will say they ride for Roxy or some other outfit. The teen icons of surf world, who can make a quarter-million dollars a year, are compelled by contract to be walking billboards of surf leisure clothes, though they barely process the sixties notion of selling out."

Leave Your World in India

Patricia Leigh Brown, writer for the New York Times Travel section, writes about spiritual enlightenment in India, which is actually quite a hot tourist draw. These medicinal practices are thousands of years old, but they are being favored today by many people. In the article In The Land of Four-Star Asceticism, you can read about "ayurvedic spas" in Southern India.

"There is a sign at the entrance to Kalari Kovilakom, the more than 150-year-old palace in the state of Kerala, India, now known as the Palace for Ayurveda, that says "Please Leave Your World Here." But, having encountered elephants ambling along the highway from the airport, you already have. You have taken the Order, the humble oath of four-star asceticism. You have agreed to forsake all known forms of vacation decadence (rice gruel for dinner, anyone?), to give up meat, alcohol, caffeine, leather accessories, naps, sunbathing, swimming and mindless frivolity in order to purify and balance your whacked-out Western body and soul.

You are here to immerse yourself in ayurveda, the 3,500-year-old herb-based healing tradition that still flourishes in the daily life of India.

Within the palace’s teak-columned halls, with exquisite images of gods and goddesses carved into the ceiling, you are less tourist than nun. Your Patagonia clothes, bought at great expense in anticipation of premonsoon humidity and soaked in a toxic cocktail of insecticide as per your doctor’s instructions, have been exchanged for compulsory no-frills attire meant to relax the mind."

Daring Tongues in Peru

GoNOMAD writer, Darrin DuFord, was told that Peru is not a country known for its cuisine. With a little bit of curiosity, DuFord dared to find out for himself if this was a fair assessment or not. So if you're curious to see if cow hearts, guinea pigs, or jungle rodents [pictured here] are delicious, read all about them in the article Chowhounding Peru: from Anticuchos to Zaino.

"We tried all three for 19 soles ($6) at the restaurant across from the Ruiz Hotel while a swarm of hand-painted motokars (three-wheeled taxis) whined past the open windows, seasoning our plates with just a hint of red dirt and blue smoke. For those who don’t speak Spanish, one could always order lunch by pointing to the stuffed majás atop the shelf in the restaurant’s dining room.

The surrounding oxbow lakes (the ones not polluted by careless development, that is) and the Amazonian tributaries provide Pucallpan households and restaurants alike with fish such as doncella, a striped, antediluvian-looking critter known in English as the tiger shovelnose catfish. Its fleshy meat, which tastes similar to tilapia and branzini, grills nicely.

One might think that a cow’s heart, thumping a half billion beats in a lifetime, would end up suitable for nothing more than leathering a saddle. But after Peruvian cooks marinate and season strips of the cow heart with cumin and achiote, the strips become tender anticuchos, the popular skewered street treat found in charcoal-blazing food carts on the sidewalks of Pucallpa as well as the more familiar destinations of Lima and Cuzco."

Experience Burning Man

August 26, 2006 marks the start of Burning Man - "an annual experiment in temporary community dedicated to radical self-expression and radical self-reliance." It takes place in the Black Rock Desert in Nevada. Molly Steenson, writer for GoNOMAD, answers all of our questions about this mind-blowing event in her article Have You Ever Been Experienced?

"You're here to survive. What happens to your brain and body when exposed to 107 degree heat, moisture wicking off your body and dehydrating you within minutes? You know and watch yourself. You drink water constantly and piss clear. You'll want to reconsider drinking that alcohol (or taking those other substances) you brought with you — the mind-altering experience of Burning Man is its own drug. You slather yourself in sunblock before the sun's rays turn up full blast. You bring enough food, water, and shelter because the elements of the new planet are harsh, and you will find no vending.

You're here to create. Since nobody at Burning Man is a spectator, you're here to build your own new world. You've built an egg for shelter, a suit made of light sticks, a car that looks like a shark's fin. You've covered yourself in silver, you're wearing a straw hat and a string of pearls, or maybe a skirt for the first time. You're broadcasting Radio Free Burning Man — or another radio station.

You're here to experience. Ride your bike in the expanse of nothingness with your eyes closed. Meet the theme camp — enjoy Irrational Geographic, relax at Bianca's Smut Shack and eat a grilled cheese sandwich. Find your love and understand each other as you walk slowly under a parasol. Wander under the veils of dust at night on the playa."

Wine Tasting in the Outback

"Who needs boomerangs when you've got almost a case of wine to declare?" asks Rex Crum, writer for BootsnAll Travel. I guess you don't really need an souveneirs from a place like Australia when you can bring home fine wines from the Outback. What better way to share your travel stories than over a nice glass with good company? Read about Crum's experience at the Kyneton Ridge Estate winery in his article Wines By The Hour In Victoria.

"Australian wines, especially shiraz (or as we often call it, syrah) have become popular in the States in the last few years, and Victoria has turned into the country's wine center. Being big fans of the grape, and especially the pinot noir variety, Megan and I made sure we knocked on more than a few of Victoria's cellar doors, most of which offer free samplings of their products.

Most of Victoria's wineries are open from 10 a.m. until 5 p.m. every day, with some exceptions where it is requested that you call in advance to ensure someone will be there to pour for you. The Macedon Range wineries, in particular, are in rural settings, and at each of the three we visited, we were the only people in the tasting room.

There must be a trend of naming wineries after local sights, because in addition to Kyneton Ridge, we also partook in sampling the offerings of the Hanging Rock and Mount Macedon and wineries. Name recognition is everything in the wine business, so why not go with a name that everybody knows?"

Virginia's Crooked Road

"You don't mess with tradition in the green hills and hollows of Southwest Virginia," says Jayne Clark, writer for USA Today Travel. Virginia's Crooked Road, a 253-mile route that weaves through lush hemlock and hardwood forests, stitches together dozens of small-town venues in the region where old-time American music first took root. Read about it in Clark's article Straight-up pickin' on the Crooked Road.

"Bands take shape on the corner, and a street party atmosphere prevails. Inside the general store, there's no smoking, drinking or cussing allowed, and generally, people comply, says Wood, an employee who helps maintain decorum.

Though Floyd is showing some signs of gentrification — tamarind-glazed tofu and jazz guitar at Oddfellas Cantina, a hemp clothing store, a shop-window ad for guided meditation — the Friday old time (fiddle-driven dance music) and bluegrass (the concert music born from old time) are what pack them in.

The jamboree evolved from impromptu get-togethers in an adjoining feed store and spread to the 1910 general store building where it became formalized 20-odd years ago.

'The store is an uplifting place with this wonderful spirit,' says current owner Woody Crenshaw. 'There's nothing pretentious here, and that's what touched me — how real it is in a world that's become so artificial.'"

Hookers in Nova Scotia

Henry Alford, writer for Travel + Leisure Magazine, starts off his family roadtrip article with the statement, "My mother is a hooker." By this, he of course means that she hooks rugs. In his article Canada: Hookin' in Nova Scotia-- A Crafter's Dream, as found on MSN Travel, he writes about a roadtrip he takes with his mother, sister, and boyfriend. He wanted to take his mother somewhere special for her 77th birthday, and Prince Edward Island was a perfect destination (where many other "hookers" also come to show off their talents).

"We'd chosen Lunenburg because it is the site of the annual Nova Scotia Folk Art Festival. And so, having parked our car in front of the Lunenburg Curling Club building one morning, we entered the de-iced hockey rink in which some 40 craftspeople were selling their wares. We beheld a dizzying welter of hand-carved mallards and yarn-based trivets and balsa dachshunds; two senior citizens, one in a keyboard vest, serenaded us all with electric piano and fiddle. I saw Mom marveling at a sculpture of a woman and a rabbit that bore the inscription 50 YEARS OLD AND ONLY ONE GRAY HARE; Mom wrote down the saying in a notebook and announced plans to hook a rug version of it, with the age changed to her own. Had I just beheld an act of folk-art theft? My brain flashed on an image of Grandma Moses reaching under her cloak to produce a Glock .357.

That night we gorged on bouillabaisse and panko-crusted frogs' legs at Lunenburg's charming, minimalist Fleur de Sel. So attentive and loving was the service that I suggested we play a game—my family's defining trait is our ability to turn almost any situation into a game—called Touch the Waiter. In it, you try to touch the waiter as many times as possible during the meal without him figuring out you're doing it. Kendy and I sallied forth, each placing an appreciative pat on our server's arm upon the food's arrival.

Then, when her dessert arrived, Kendy pulled ahead with a combination of wrist tap and "Ooh, how fabulous!" Not to be outdone, I announced, "I love mine, too" and gently brushed my elbow against the waiter's side. I would have been happy to leave it a tie, but Kendy was all closure. As we were exiting the restaurant, she directed the laser beam of her personality at the waiter's right shoulder, lavishing it with a "We loved everything" and a hearty hand clap. Game over.

On each of my first two nights in Nova Scotia, I slept for more than 10 hours (cool, piney air + tomblike silence = nature's chloroform). Seldom has sleep been so renewing, so buoyant-making: I felt like aerosol room freshener."

Not Over Run With Tourism in Kenya

Thanks to Dave from Dave's Travel Corner, we are able to see the world one step at a time alongside this great writer. Read about one of his travels to Africa in his article Lamu, Kenya. With his excellent descriptions, you will feel like you are almost there without leaving your computer.

"Hundreds and hundreds of miles of lush green vegetation lie below me seemingly never changing as we bounce from one cloud to the next in a small10-seat prop plane - green, so much green covering this vast terrain of Eastern Africa. A single strand, so small and barely noticeable comes into view. It reminds me of a dark thread out of place on light colored shirt. A muddy road, unbroken except for the occasional truck, winds its way eastward towards the ocean. We slowly descend onto the dirt airstrip near Lamu, a remote Kenyan town 50 miles south of the Somali border - our final destination.

Lamu is a Kenya's oldest living town and its population is mainly Muslim. An interesting feature of this town is that automobiles are not allowed. The main reason for this is that the dirt streets are extremely narrow and crowded with people. There is one car on the island which is owned by the District Commissioner.

Pay attention to the dress of of the locals. Most of the men wear full length white robes and distinctive skull type caps. The women wear black wrap around robes, most of them cover their head as well in black, and a few women covered their entire face except for slits around their eyes."

A Train to Beijing

Matt Gross, writer for the New York Times Travel section, was feeling lucky when he walked up to a train counter in China. There was no lines, so he thought he would have no problem getting a ticket. The train he wanted to board had no tickets left, but an officer offered up his own ticket - right out of his pocket. Read about his experience on the Chinese train in the article On a People's Train From Urumqi to Beijing.

"By afternoon, everyone was comfortable enough with my presence that I could barely wander the corridors without being asked to join a game of cards, or sit on a bunk and listen to a Uighur man strum energetic folk songs on his two-string guitar. The 48 hours went by quickly. There was always something happening, whether it was the Dushanbe shoe salesman who came by to chat, a toddler to exchange funny faces with, or the 20-minute station stops, when half the train seemed to rush outside to buy some strange local melon.

During the rare quiet moments, I would glance up from my reading — Gogol’s “Dead Souls” — and gaze out the window at the ever-changing landscape. What began near Urumqi as a wide desert landscape — its desolate beauty a master class in yellows and browns — turned into a more traditional Chinese panorama: terraced hills furrowed with squiggly paths, gently fading into mist-shrouded mountains. Finally, as we neared Beijing, the fields of corn and wheat were increasingly interrupted by factories and office parks, and the fog that had lent the mountains their mystical aura became instead a smoggy haze that blotted the sun and trapped the heat. Luckily, the train cars were well air-conditioned.

Still, after two nights in such close quarters, we were all a little tired and smelly. (A few women somehow managed to maintain fresh looks.) As the train inched toward the capital, new friends exchanged business cards and phone numbers, while a half-dozen people stopped by to remind me to consolidate my belongings."

Tourism in Bali

Jason Glaskell, writer for GoNOMAD, writes about Bali - a holiday paradise but political hot spot. While it is a great destination, it is no stranger to terrorism; however, this Indonesian island's local economy depends on tourism. Glaskell comments that "Bali cannot survive without the tourists who have supported them for so long; so if you decide to stay away, in a very real sense – the terrorists will win." Read more about Bali in Bali After the Bombings.

"I started my trip in the quieter town of Sanur - a place for families, for those who no longer feel the need to go partying and clubbing until the late hours; a place to relax… so they say. But the locals want business, and they start as soon as you arrive; trying to strike up a relationship, trying to make an impression—

“Hello! Where you from?”

Within a few minutes of hopping out of the taxi, I was hustled into buying some new flip-flops, for which I think I paid more than double the normal price. The next day I purchased a sarong that I had no intention of buying. “For luck yes, first customer today,” the old woman who owned the small shop had said. “Special price for you sir.” I politely declined the offer only to see the woman begin to get upset. That is when I’d agreed to buy the sarong for a discounted price. What else can you do? Anyway, my sympathy purchase turned out to be useful for visiting temples, as you can rarely enter one without wearing a sarong."