Archive for September, 2007

Life’s too short. It takes time to discover all the quartiers that make up the 20 arrondissements of Paris. When you do find an excellent new restaurant tucked away somewhere, or a bar with a great atmosphere, you pass the information on like a precious gift. So here are a few of the gems I’ve found in the last four years, well off the beaten track for tourists.

Bistrot du Peintre, Paris

The Bistrot du Peintre, 116 Avenue Ledru Rollin, is all graceful Art Nouveau curves and original early 20th-century decor. No one I know has ever been disappointed by a meal here and as a main course is 15 to 20 euros it doesn’t break the bank. Their Cuisse de Canard Confite is enough to make a vegetarian crack. A great place to indulge in that great French past time, sharing the enjoyment of delicious food with good company.

The Bistrot du Peintre is at the heart of what was the old furntiture-makers’ district east of Bastille. The noisy workshops and machine saws of 20 years ago have vanished along with the aroma of rare woods, but the area has turned into one of the best places to live and go out in Paris. It’s not as expensive and pretty as the Marais (west of Bastille), though that’s close by if you want to go there and window shop in the boutiques on a Sunday or stroll round the place des Vosges and listen to the buskers. Neither is it as poor as Belleville. But it’s very lively. And it’s changing rapidly.

Essentially what you need to know is that the Right Bank is the new Left Bank. All the new galleries and interesting bars that are opening stretch in an arc from Bastille north up through Belleville and Menilmontant, then west towards the slopes of Monmartre. This is where it’s happening, because gentrification has priced out the young from the Left Bank, Sartre’s 5th and 6th arrondissments, turning them into a playground for the rich and tourists looking for a long-vanished Paris.

In Bastille, nightlife centres on rue de Lappe, a cobbled street that contains the old Balajo club where Edith Piaf used to sing. This short street is lined with bars and restaurants, including the beautiful but pricey Bistrot les Sans Culottes at number 27.

For my money, though, the best bar is the Bastide halfway down the street, a scruffy and unpretentious place that hasn’t changed in 20 years. The walls are lined with faded posters – Marlon Brando in Un Tramway nommé Desire; a police mugshot of the notoriously ugly singer Serge Gainsbourg. It keeps irregular hours but gets crowded, which is good as it forces the French to overcome their innate reticence and start talking to strangers. And all ages come here – from 25-year-olds to 60-year-old veterans of the 1960s and ’70s.

Pause Cafe, photo by Ben Ford

An important side of Parisian social life is people watching. Set yourself up at a table in a café like Pause Café, 41 rue de Charonne, and check out the people checking each other out. This café enjoyed minor fame for its role in the film Chacun cherche son Chat (Everyone’s Looking for Their Cat) about daily life in the quartier Bastille. The barman is still Ariskey, who you can see in the film, who likes to pass a dry joke with the regulars. Dry humour is known as humour froid in French, and as in England, is something of an art form. When the sun comes out the tables get packed with people posing and looking out for minor bo-bo celebrities. Bo-bo, or bourgoise-boheme refers to people with middle class or professional jobs who pose as Bohemian artist types. But there are real people there, too, and if you want to meet them rather than pose, the basic rule in a French cafe is to sit at the bar. Espressos are half price at the bar, too!

Parisian cafés all have tiny round tables outside, just big enough for two people. It’s a city geared to intimate encounters between two people, whether you’re meeting your friend, your lover or your mum. It lends itself to the revealing of confidences and to storytelling. Parisians are forever arranging meetings at cafés where they drink very slowly and hang out for hours. Breakfast in a café – coffee and a croissant – is the best way to meet the habitués, the locals. Parisians are more relaxed then and less concerned with competitive posing.

But the best kept secret in the area is Le Fanfaron at 6, rue de la Main d’Or, a bar that keeps itself exclusive by not even having its name painted on the outside. Everything in it is retro, from the ’50s style bar to the Hammer Horror and Barbarella movie posters and the ’60s music. Xavier, the quiffed barman and a huge Rolling Stones fan, cuts up sausages for the clientel in between changing the vinyl records, alternating rock’n’roll with later bands like Iggy Pop or Patti Smith. Watch your change though as he’s apt to forget how many drinks you’ve had, just keeps a rather inaccurate paper tally. Regulars coast in on their Vespa scooters in all their Mod gear. It’s the antithesis of bo-bo cool, a much grungier subculture style.

Leaving Bastille behind, the other main drag for bars and night life on the Right Bank is on the two parallel streets rue Oberkampf and rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, accessible from Metro Parmentier. Oberkampf stretches up the hill towards Menilmontant and Belleville and on Saturday night glitters with light from the bars. Walking up from the metro, stop in first at Café Charbon, 109 rue Oberkampf, with its high ceiling and mirrored walls, get a Mojito or something to eat and then set out to explore the surrounding streets and bars.

Le Chat Noir, 76 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud, puts on gigs in the cellar, often folk or French chanson, a style that is closest to cabaret, somewhere between traditional songs, folk and pop and which usually involves accordions. Look out for a free pocket sized listings magazine called Lylo that is distributed in bars and also the music shop fnac (at Bastille), as this contains details for all the music and concerts and clubs across Paris.

If you want to get away from the beer and the noise, for something calmer and more intellectual, move down the street to the Ogre à Plumes at 49, rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud. Yves, Virginie and Sophie, three actors, run this restaurant and café litteraire, hosting readings by French authors and putting on pieces de theatre in the basement.

Finally round off your night dancing to electro or funk at the Alimentation Generale at 64 rue Jean Pierre Timbaud, or the Nouveau Casino behind Café Charbon, or the OPA (always free to get in) back at 9 rue Biscornet just off Bastille. If salsa is your thing there’s Barrio Latino, 46 rue du faubourg Saint Antione, 2 minutes from Bastille. Or for jazz and blues sample the concerts in the cellar at the Caveau des Oubliettes, 52 rue Galande, in the 5th arrondissement, Metro St Michel. Entry free as long as you buy a drink.

–David Barnes

If you’re planning a trip to Paris, be sure to browse Viator’s list of Paris tours and things to see and do.

Editor’s Note: The following post is by Laura Z, the online marketing guru at Blurb; Laura also writes about her voracious book consumption on a different site.

Lady Liberty

A few weeks ago, my boyfriend visited his parents in Manhattan and seemed on the verge of not coming back to California. I flew out to fetch him from the east coast, and squeezed some tremendous fun into the weekend, all without breaking the bank.

So here’s my list of Things to Do in NYC for less than $20.

• Kayak in the Hudson River. This is run by a non-profit out of Pier 40, you can kayak around the marina and are sheltered from the busy river traffic. You can stash anything you don’t want to get wet in their lockers for free. Cost: Free
• Batting cages at Pier 25. Walking down the esplanade still dripping from our kayaking, my boyfriend gallantly bought us a couple of rounds of pitches. My lifetime batting average was not improved by 60-mph balls hurtling eye-level at me, but it was entertaining and I swear I smelled peanuts and beer nearby. Cost: $2 for 15 pitches
• Play pool on the the outdoor pool tables along the Hudson River promenade. Cost: Free when you show photo ID
• Cruise past the Statue of Liberty. Definitely the most fun way to see NYC’s harbor. Cost: $20
• Explore Red Hook, Brooklyn, one of the last quiet corners of NYC. The water taxi terminal ($10 for a trip to Manhattan) is right next to one of the wonders of the world– Fairway Market. Need 800 cans of baked beans? 300 packs of paper plates? Fairway is the place to go. From the taxi terminal, head down to Coffey Park right on the waterfront, which offers great views of the Statue of Liberty. Cost: Free
  

  Washington Square Park on a sunny day

• Hang out in Washington Square Park. On a hot Sunday afternoon, nothing beats sitting in the fountain, listening to street musicians and people-watching. Cost: Free
• Tour the NYC public library. I hear great things about the reading room in the library at 5th & 42nd, but I was denied entry when Fashion Week took over the building during my visit. Cost: Free
• Celebrity sightings on the street. Ethan Hawke is constantly afoot in the Village, and we also spotted Alan Ruck (Cameron from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). Cost: Free
• Over on the Viator site there are more than a dozen tours and activities in NYC for less than $20, including a Rockefeller Center Tour, an ‘On Location’ tour to Central Park’s film and movie sites, tickets to the Empire State Building’s observation deck, the Ground Zero Museum Workshop Tour, an NBC Studios tour and more (also check out Viator’s complete list of things to do in New York).

And of course, when you’re back home, you can make a Blurb book with pictures and notes about your trip. Blurb has free software that makes it easy to create your own quality book. I’m putting together a book as a thank-you gift for my hosts for the weekend. Cost: $13 and up.

–Laura Z

What are you doing with your travel photos… why not make a Blurb book to show them off? Laura has created a special promo code for all Viator travelers. Simply enter the promo code gotravel on the Blurb checkout to receive $7 off shipping through the end of the year. Thanks Blurb!

“I haven’t got any money either,” my friend Colin commiserated, as we discussed the absolutely irresponsible idea of spending a week exploring California.

“Well, all the banks are supposed to fail anyway,” I rationalized. “Won’t they take our credit card debt with them?” And so the trip was on.

The Griffith Park Observatory, the Los Angeles skyline Photo by Colin Plant

I picked Colin up at LAX and headed inland, stopping for a snack in a posh Beverly Hills café before winding eastward along the Sunset Strip. After a star-studded stroll along Hollywood’s Walk of Fame, it was Griffith Park, where music from the Greek Theatre was already reverberating through the Hollywood Hills, only recently re-opened after a devastating wildfire. The crystal-clear view from the top reached to the sea, a rare and beautiful phenomena we discussed over dinner at an East LA taqueria.

We hit the Grapevine early, and though the next day’s heat was closing in on oppressive, we couldn’t resist a side trip to the temptingly named town of California Hot Springs. The adorable inn and pools were sadly closed, so we continued up into the big trees of Sequoia National Forest.

The region is designated multi-use, where tree-hugging hippies and hard-working loggers meet but rarely greet. On the Trail of One Hundred Giants, we were pleased to see that all praise of “harvesting” the 2,500-year-old sequoias had been scratched off the path’s interpretive plaques.

Though the adjacent campsites were packed, a free, unimproved campground close-by was deserted. After dinner next to our very private stream, we followed a fire road illuminated by the full moon. Such peace. Our next campsite, inside Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks, was quite the opposite: Lodgepole’s family-friendly, eco-Disney ambiance intensified by patrols of small black bears hoping for a treat in exchange for the rather risky photo-op.

Big tall tree Photo by Colin Plant

With 800 miles of trails to explore, it was hard to settle on just one. So we chose a few: Tokopah Falls, Round Meadow, and as the shadows lengthened and tourists thinned, famed Congress Trail to world’s largest tree, General Sherman. We dallied beneath the President and spent twilight amongst groves named for the Senate and House. Silently and simultaneously, Colin and I both experienced a spiritual, moonlit awe. We awoke before Lodgepole’s other 190 sites, enjoying our coffee in the short-lived serenity of a nearby waterfall. And after our morning stroll through Grant Grove, we made camp hastily in King’s Canyon and hit the undulating 8-mile trail to Mist Falls.

Like so much of California, these woods are parched with two years of drought. But that day was unusual and unpredicted: Clouds swirled across the bright blue sky, bequeathing showers that woke from the suffering pines a fragrance that lifting us body and soul up the mountains. But as the showers thickened to thunderstorms, we began to worry. Would my cheap little tent hold up?

After some discussion, we simply folded down the seats of the car and settled in for a dry but lumpy night. The open hatchback framed fierce lightening strikes illuminating the glacier-scoured granite, and we thanked the gods and sub-prime lenders that we were too broke to afford a room at the lodge.

At first light, we threw the sodden tent and bedding into the car, cruising to a lower, dryer elevation, where a Technicolor desert canyon welcomes to the park. After spreading our sopping belongings on the rocks, we sipped coffee above the spectacular scenery, greeted by other campers inspired to an early start. “So how’d you like the fireworks last night?” “That was some show, eh?” “I’ve been coming here for 30 years, and never seen anything like that.”

This was our big driving day, across the scorched and smog-choked San Joaquin Valley, where more than one quarter of America’s crops are grown. Exhausted, we opted for a real hotel room, so close to the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk that you could hear the screams from the Giant Dipper.

Our sound sleep did not prepare us for the trip’s first moral dilemma: The 17-Mile Drive. It is the only way to access gorgeous Monterey Peninsula, imprisoned within the gated community of Pebble Beach, which asks you to pay US$9 per car to drive on public, taxpayer-maintained roads. We did it, but wished we hadn’t.

Our love Carmel-by-the-Sea was true, however, for its sweet state park and lovely mission , final resting place of Padre Junípero Serra. After that brief cultural interlude, we scooted south toward the coast’s crown jewel, Big Sur. And, this being Labor Day Weekend, everyone else was there, too. Sigh.

California dreamin’ Photo by Colin Plant

We fought the crowds on each windy promontory, finally finding parking at Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park, where we waited our turn for a photo of the waterfall pouring into the sea. After failing to get a seat at Nepenthe, we finally reached a perfect sandy cove, Sand Dollar Beach, where we collapsed after fighting the crowds to commune with nature.

“Every campsite is taken,” noted Colin.

“Every hotel room, too,” I worried.

We formed a battle plan as we frolicked in the waves: Plan A involved San Simeon, home to Hearst Castle. If everything was full, we would continue to Cayucos, Morro Bay and, as a last resort, inland to San Luis Obispo.

While we didn’t really believe that it was the Econolodge’s last room, we paid the extortionate holiday rates. At least downtown was hopping, full of festive, pheromone-addled college kids on the prowl. “This is silly,” I sighed, over my vegan enchilada. “Let’s stay at my place tomorrow. Orange County does have nice beaches.”

The next morning we lingered over coffee at the wonderful, over-the-top Madonna Inn and stopped for a brisk walk along broad Pismo Beach. We then headed inland, to the turnoff to (usually) secluded Jalama Beach, 14 miles from the main road. And miraculously scored the very last parking space.

We strategized in the sunshine: First, a late lunch in Santa Barbara, then a nice beach in Malibu after 5pm, when young families would begin heading home. But Santa Barbara turned out to be more crowded than Wal*Mart on Christmas Eve. “It’s a beautiful city,” said Colin. “But can we get out of here, right now?”

It was the height of Labor Day hell; you couldn’t see the sand beneath the umbrellas. Then I remembered the quiet beach town of Carpinteria, rarely crowded despite its many charms. We couldn’t get close to the sea, but did manage to find lunch.

We blazed through the stuccoed strip malls and seedy hotels of Ventura and Oxnard, hitting Malibu’s “27 Miles of Scenic Beauty” right on schedule, bypassing the more popular beaches, according to plan. And, sure enough, El Matador State Park had a few open spaces, and we watched one last spectacular sunset, filtered through the dramatic rock formations.

I’d promised Colin one last lovely beach, and after a late morning at my Orange County flat, we headed to Laguna’s sparkling Crystal Cove . “It’s been an almost perfect vacation,” Colin sighed. “The only thing it lacked was an island.”

“You want an island?” I smiled. “I’ve got an island.” And it was up to mansion-encrusted, yacht-fringed Balboa Island, perhaps 30 feet from the mainland across a photogenic bridge. We savored our final meal together at Wilma’s Patio, and returned to LAX, tanned, rested and ready to make those credit card payments. And all was right with the world.

–Paige Penland

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s tours in California, things to see & do in Los Angeles, and along the California coast.

Bath is a World Heritage Site for its architecture and history. But it’s also a modern city with a well-regarded university, cinemas, theatres, clubs, pubs, and shopping with excellent rail links. I highly recommend a visit.

Rain is the one similarity between this visit and my last visit to Bath. The big difference between this visit and last is that the famous hot springs of Bath have been renovated and are now reopen, after being closed since 1978.

The Roman baths in Bath

England’s only naturally occurring hot springs is in Bath. Using their engineering know-how to harness the waters and build grand baths the Romans stayed for around 400 years. The complex of baths continued to be used by the rich and powerful in England until the baths were opened to the public in the 19th century. Bathhouses with large contraptions were built for people to enjoy the healing powers of the water by complete immersion. Doctors were available for consult and for a while the whole thing was government subsidised – happy days!

I split my bathing over two days not wanting to end up completely waterlogged, but wanting to experience it all. For my first bathing experience, I went to Cross Bath, an outdoor pool in a circular historic building squatting in the middle of a cobblestone square, surrounded by beautiful Georgian buildings. Used as a healing pool for centuries, Cross Bath was visited by people from all over England for its healing properties

A visit to the baths

When I was there, it was raining, windy and cold, so I was looking forward to being immersed in hot, steamy water. Unfortunately, it was tepid. Only the English could enjoy sitting outdoors in tepid water with a howling cold wind making waves in the pool, thunder rolling around. Well, the English and me, apparently. That I was the only one there bathing should that have been a hint to my madness. But the water really did feel gentle and afterwards I felt clearer and calmer than I had for a long time. Those Romans really did understand a thing or two about bathing and health, after all, “spa” stands for salus per acqua – healing through water.

The other outcome of my visit to the Cross Bath was that I was starving and exhausted. So I sought out the familiar, leading me to Pizza Express, an English chain with actually good pizza. The Bath branch also had flirtatious Italian waiters.

I was staying in a small hotel just outside of the main centre of Bath, across the railways tracks on the hill towards Bear Flat –it’s a little cheaper and an easy walk, although there is a bus too. I had decided to walk because it was a pretty treed path and I liked looking at the houses and the view over Bath as I rose up the hill. But halfway up the steep, steep hill in the pouring rain, as I struggled along, I regretted my choice. And insult was only added to injury as a hardy local in a suit rode past me on a bicycle all the way to the hill – impressive. He did have to zigzag though. But so did I and I was on foot!

The next day I ventured into the main part of the new bath complex, the New Royal Bath. I had the choice of two or four hours or all day; I went for the four-hour ticket. In hindsight I would have been okay with two hours and I am a complete spa addict. While the facilities were nice, there are really only three areas to play in, unless you pay for expensive treatments. In the basement is the indoor pool, the tepid Minerva Pool. The great thing there is the long foam spaghetti to wrap under your arms and legs and float like a princess for hours. In the pool, there’s a jacuzzi area, and a water jet and currents which come on and off (they made it noisy and a bit theme park-esque) but it does seem to be a trend in bathing these days (people seem to need entertainment while they relax for some reason). There are also lots of lounge chairs but I got a bit cold in my wet swimmers and robe. I’m sure in winter they do a better job of heating the whole place (I was there in May and it was unseasonably cold, although you’d think the English might be better prepared for that with their unfortunate climate).

Georgian buildings in Bath, England

Then there is the open-air rooftop pool. Gorgeous – even in the rain. The views were wonderful, over the rooftops of Bath to the greenest of green fields beyond. The colour of Bath is lovely, all caramel coloured stone and rural light, so different from the dark satanic brick and pollution of London.

I left relaxed, healed but a little unsatisfied. I like my thermal water hotter than that. I guess the size of the pools makes it cool a bit, and this is something I’ve found in lots of European thermal pools. Ironically, the hot water in my hotel was dangerously scalding and I nearly burnt a layer of skin off in the shower.

For me, Bath is one of the ideal travel destinations because, as well as having thermal waters, it is laden with girly romantic fantasies of frocks and dances and barouches from Jane Austen’s books or Georgette Heyer’s rollicking and humourous romances that I am finally discovering thanks to the patient persistence of my mother.

Any visit to Bath is incomplete if you don’t go to the 18th-century Assembly Rooms, the scene of many dances, formidable dowagers and handsome rakes, flirtations and misunderstandings which always turned out right 200 pages later. Of course, Austen’s novels were social satires of the times she lived in, so there really were dances, dowagers and flirtations in this building when Bath was the fashionable place for the rich to spend their summers. Today, the Assembly Rooms are often used for conferences so you might have to peer into the beautiful rooms from behind a rope as I did. And possibly, of an evening, one would find similar rakes, flirtations and misunderstandings, but now in modern day office uniform.

Further up the hill, the Royal Crescent and The Circus were the height of fashionable living in England’s Regency Era and are beautiful examples of Georgian architecture. The Pulteney Bridge (named after the first Earl of Bath) is lined with shops as it reaches over the Avon River. In fact, Bath is a beautifully preserved example of eighteenth century architecture, even if the shops are now all the usual high street chains.

Make certain you pack your swimsuit, camera and copy of Pride and Prejudice as the famous baths of Bath are now reopened.

–Philippa Burne

Planning a trip? Browse all of Viator’s day trips from London and things to do in England.

Editor’s note: Despite being somebody who “doesn’t do tours,” Jodi surprised herself recently by having a great time on a day trip to the Pyrenees from Barcelona. This time around Jodi tackles Montserrat, vortex and all.

Once again I leap into the friendly green mini-van for today’s tour to Montserrat and the Codorníu winery in the famous Penedes cave district. Our guide, Adrien, is warm and gregarious; making sure everyone is introduced and comfortable before we set off into the hills.

The tour groups are small and have an intimate vibe, almost as though you are meeting up with friends of friends on holiday, and give plenty of space for independent wandering and sightseeing with flexible times depending on everyone’s interest and inclination.

Today is overcast and threatening to be stormy later, but the drive through the countryside is gorgeous, with the random castles and ruins spotted amongst modern apartments and factories. Information about the area flows through conversation, so you never feel bombarded by facts and figures, and any particular points of intrigue can be discussed further. On this occasion, the tour is bilingual, as one of the group only speaks French, but the informal approach remains during explanations in both languages.

Black Madonnas at Montserrat’s Basilica

As we start to climb the winding road to Montserrat the view is stunning, looking back across the fields and towns gives a new perspective to the landscape. Adrien tells us about the formation of the mountains, rising up from the river delta over thousands of years, as the stones rise and fold over each other they created these distinctive serrated formations piercing the sky. Passing a number of convents and monastic retreats along the way, some of them still in use, we arrive in the car park to a first glimpse of the flat seventies brick restaurant buildings juxtaposed against the backdrop of dramatic cliffs falling away to the deep valley below.

A cable car cuts through the rock from the valley, and two funiculars along almost vertical tracks jut through the chasm in opposite directions. Leading us past the local market where you can sample delicious cheese with honey and produce, we visit the cafeteria and gift shop, before arriving at the courtyard in a cluster of buildings around the Basilica. Philippa is tempted to buy a baby on a cloud, and I am very taken with the rows of Black Madonna’s but we both manage to escape empty-handed.

Vortex at Montserrat’s Basilica

During the explanations of the attractions, one of the group asks about the vortex, which is said to be part of the earth’s energy field, and has an entry point here in the mountain. Adrien explains that this vortex is located on a black rock in front of the Baroque Gothic Cathedral, and legend has it that if you stand in the middle of the circle barefoot and raise your arms to the sky, an extraordinary force will pass through you. The priests must be thrilled by this slightly pagan worship going on directly outside. After pointing out the various options to explore, from a walk along the mountain towards the cemetery, or visiting the altars along the lower cliffs, to the long queue waiting for a glimpse of the Black Madonna up close, he then utters the fantastic invitation: “And now, I will take you to the vortex!”

Waiting for a group of nuns to finish their photo session on the black stone, we each take off our shoes and walk tentatively to the centre of the vortex. I have to confess that the experience doesn’t move me with a mysterious energy in the way I was hoping, but Philippa is distinctly swoony afterward, to the point where we start to worry that she may have to be left in the convent. Adrien warns us that ‘sinners will be struck down’ but evidently neither of us has sinned enough yet. There is no religious conversion today either, although a brief trip down the mountain path towards a series of altars held in rocky embrace is quickly deemed far too steep, so we retrace our steps and head to the Funicular de Sant Joan.

This involves a queue, as everything seems to on the sightseeing trail, but eventually we climb into the sloping cars and grind our way slowly to the summit. Stepping out onto the rocky path towards the cemetery it begins to rain, so our view is mostly clouds. The trail continues along a very narrow path on the edge of the peak, so it’s judged enough to walk a short way and enjoy the view, with our picnic of sandwiches from the cafeteria. Up here the quiet is intense, and seems to have a life of its own.

After only a short time, I can imagine how deeply a mystical experience in these hills would be felt, and have a profound effect on the traveler. Once you walk away from the main buildings, there is an incredible sense of peace, and something in the air itself changes. A choir is singing close by, mixed with the operatic tones of someone vocalizing their faith across the hill, the place has a powerful charge. It’s possible to stay here overnight, in one of the cells originally built for monks, or at a hotel, and spend more time with the rituals and excellent library of the monastery. Unfortunately some army – Napoleons, perhaps - burned the superb collection of illustrated mediaeval texts. I noted the 1811 battle of Napoleon, but can’t remember if it was then or during the civil war that the destruction took place.

Leaving the mountain across the north face and around the other side, we stop at a tiny ancient stone church, famous for something (I forget what now), and hear other legends of the rocky outcrops. Climbing one of them is said to provoke a spontaneous sex change, while another is thought to be the rearing horse of an ancient hero. Driving into the plains, the view of the jagged peaks from a distance is impressive, and it’s easy to understand why people were drawn to this place as it has a genuinely mystical aura, rising out of the land.

Cordoniu Cava

Now we come to worship at another church, the beautifully designed Modernist entrance hall to Codorníu, with curving arches, diffused light and Art Nouveau details by architect Puig I Cadafalch. This is one of the oldest vineyards in the area, operating since 1551 with a family dynasty of 17 generations, and was the first to produce Cava when the method was introduced from France. ‘Everyone drinks Cava here’, a local explains, ‘not just for special occasions’. Made with the same method as champagne, it can be a less expensive alternative to fancy French labels, with comparable quality and taste.

After watching a short introductory video, we are led through the grounds past an amazing white mansion with towers and a moat, which turns out to be the family residence, and down into the cellars. These stretch for 30km, although a mistranslation in the video claimed they were 30km underground; but either way they are extremely impressive. The museum on the top floor contains mysterious wooden implements and huge oak barrels, showing the older production techniques.

The guide leads us through a maze of slightly musty smelling brick arches, explaining some part of the process at each stop. Eventually we clamber onto seats in a centipede like vehicle, and as the carriages swing wildly around corners, dub it the ‘crazy-train’. The second form of kooky transport for the day, all we missed was a ride on the cable car!

Ad for Cordoniu Cava

The family story would make a great melodrama, with centuries of intrigue and passion for the land, now producing millions of bottles per year. Matriarch Anna Codorníu even has a range of Cava named after her. The vintage advertising posters are wonderfully decadent, with a range of elegant ladies raising a toast in opulent surroundings.

The tour ends with a glass of Cava for everyone, and time to buy souvenir bottles to take home. Here I cave into temptation, and indeed am about to open that sparkling Brut Reserve Rosé for a drink with the neighbours tonight.

–Jodi Rose

Planning a trip? Browse all of Viator’s Barcelona tours, tours and day trips to Montserrat, and things to do in Spain.

Editor’s Note: This is part of Viator’s ongoing series of posts about the 2007 Rugby World Cup. Ian has been tipping his favorite teams in Pools A & B and Pools C & D, and writing about players that matter. Now he’s on the ground in France — you can read his most recent posts here.

Okay, I’ve returned to civilization, after spending a week in rural France, eating cheese and drinking the local wine… this is tough work, blogging about the Rugby World Cup from the south of France.

All Blacks doing a hacka

Mrs Rugby and I were at the Wallaby / Fiji game in Montpellier yesterday, and it looked like Australia had invaded France, with two out of every three people in the middle of Montpellier yesterday in some sort of green and gold jumper.

The Fijians showed some spirit when they performed their haka, but for the rest of the game, they were totally outclassed by the Wallabies, who eventually won 55 to 12.

And prize for the most passionate fans so far must go to Portugal. I went to the All Blacks / Portugal game last week, and it seemed like half of Portugal had turned up to the stadium. I was seated just in front of what must have been the Portugese family and friends section, and they didn’t stop chanting all the way through the match.

In case you missed it: the Rugby World Cup on display

It was a historic occasion for Portugal, being the first time they had played the All Blacks ever, and despite going down by about 100 points, they never gave up. And the roar that went up when they scored a try was HUGE!! And I must admit, they do know how to dress up in their country colours of red and green.

Surprise of the tournament so far has to be Tonga, beating Samoa and only narrowly going down to South Africa. Given England’s performances so far, it looks like the Tonga / England match coming up could be a crunch game, to see who makes it through to the quarter finals.

I was very disappointed in the ref for the England / Samoa match, he seemed to let the game go on and on after he should have blown the full-time whistle, just so England could get a bonus point for their 4th try. Rigged by the IRB, or what ??

Off to another battle of the minnows tomorrow, Romania vs. Portugal (Go POR-TU-GAL !!). Cheers from the south of France…

–Ian “Frentzy” Frentz

Editor’s note: Rod Cuthbert (a.k.a. Viator’s Founder and Chairman) is working on a screenplay. If you’re a Hollywood agent looking for a ’sure thing’, leave Rod a comment and his people will call your people.

“SOLD OUT”

A Love Story Not Meant to Be

By Rod Cuthbert

FADE IN: ACT 1, SCENE 1

INT. SUBURBAN AMERICAN HOME - DAY

MAN FLIPS THROUGH PARIS GUIDEBOOK, LOOKING TRIUMPHANT

So you are taking your new girlfriend to Paris for a few days. It’s romantic, it’s got lots of culture and you will glow in the reflected light of this perfect choice.

MAN CLUTCHING MOULIN ROUGE DVD AND PICTURE OF WOMAN

And, it’s a surprise, well, it was supposed to be a surprise, but you let it slip out because you are so excited about it, you are going to the Moulin Rouge cabaret, because your girlfriend loved that movie and, even if you suspect it’s really Ewan McGregor she loves, you are going to make it come alive for her.

You are a man with a plan. You are going to kick this relationship up a gear or two and — God forbid — if things go well you may even propose on the Eiffel Tower.

FADE IN: ACT 1, SCENE 2

INT. SUBURBAN AMERICAN HOME - NIGHT

MAN SITTING AT DESK WITH COMPUTER

Whoa, steady on there man. Let’s book those flights first. Check.

Hotel? Found a great place in St. Germain, check. Pickup from the airport? Check. Passports, guidebook, cash… check, check, check.

FADE IN: ACT 2, SCENE 1

EXT. PARIS STREET SCENE - DAY

MAN AND WOMAN WALKING HAND IN HAND, IN LOVE

And how well is this going? Uneventful flight, customs was a breeze, a man in a beret holding a sign with your name on it at Charles de Gaulle, the hotel room is divine and your stocks have risen more than you could have ever dreamed.

Early evening, dinner at La Coupole and a walk on the Seine, back to your hotel and maybe now is a good time check with your concierge about Moulin Rouge tickets…

FADE IN: ACT 2, SCENE 2

INT. FRONT DESK IN LOBBY OF PARIS HOTEL - NIGHT

MAN STANDING IMPATIENTLY AT CONCIERGE DESK.

CONCIERGE OBVIOUSLY HAS BETTER THINGS TO DO THAN TO HELP MAN

CONCIERGE

Saturday night? Of course… but for which month, monsieur?

Surely not this Saturday? Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no.

Surely monsieur is joking with me? You Americans like to make your little jokes…

MAN STARTS PACING NERVOUSLY (CLOSE-UP)

MAN (VOICE-OVER)

Stay calm. This isn’t happening, OK?

Of course you book this stuff through the concierge, that’s what everyone does.

Geez, mom and dad booked through their concierge when they were here in, well, it was 1975…

WOMAN WALKS OVER TO MAN.

SHE’S BOUGHT A FENDI SCARF AT THE LOBBY SHOP.

WOMAN

Darling, the scarf’s a steal at €75 and I’ll need it for the Moulin Rouge later.

There’s always a little nip in the air in the evening.

WOMAN PAUSES AND OVERHEARS DISCUSSION BETWEEN MAN AND CONCIERGE

WOMAN IS AGITATED

MAN

No babe, there’s no problem. Really, it’s all good, we’ll get the tickets somewhere else…

…no, I didn’t book in advance, the concierge can handle that sort of stuff…

OK, yes, I take your point. He obviously can’t handle this particular request, but if we wanted to go next month he would be happy to help. Well, there’s no need to get upset, let me make some phone calls…

…no, I don’t think I should have let you handle it, I’m quite capable…

…calling me names really won’t help, and no, I don’t agree there’s any relationship between my ability to book a simple thing like a night out and whether I could function as the head of a household. Yes, I’m sure your last boyfriend would have done a great job of arranging things. Well, for that matter my last girlfriend wouldn’t have needed a $200 Gucci scarf to look good in Paris, either.

OK, Fendi, Gucci, I don’t care. Let go of that, it’s got my passport inside.

Oh my God, your nails are sharp… help, security!

FADE OUT:

VOICE-OVER FROM OFF SCREEN

Don’t let this happen to you. Booking key vacation activities ahead of time on Viator.com means you’ll never have to call Security to drag away your disappointed wife / girlfriend / lover. Leave nothing to chance. It is not worth the hassle.

FADE TO BLACK

–Rod Cuthbert

Rod Cuthbert is Viator’s Founder & Chairman. He recently attended the Moulin Rouge as a guest of the management, but would have booked online if he had needed to…

Editor’s note: This is the fourth in a series of articles about Darwin, Alice Springs, and the quirkiness that is the Northern Territory of Australia by Jack Brown. You can read Jack’s first, second and third posts posts to catch up on where the road’s taken Jack.

After 1,000 weary kilometres, hopefully you’ve managed some rest and taken some time to prepare yourself for the sights and encounters that await you in that dusty jewel - the territory’s Heart of Gold (well that’s what the signs say), the regional service centre otherwise known as Tennant Creek.

No doubt you elected to skip the Three Ways Roadhouse (gateway to Queensland and the verdant east coast of Australia) with its gentle awakenings: a morning beer with a truckie with a story to tell. Upon approach to Tennant Creek, you are also, no doubt, worried by the back of the road sign emblazoned with “Kevin Rules TC”.

Who is Kevin? Does he rule fairly?

And you are no doubt unable to breathe easily from laughter for minutes on end when you see one of the best pieces of graffiti in Australia: upon a shipping crate which advertises the opportunity “U Pack It”, the TC boys, perhaps even ruling supremo Kevin, has replied “We’ll Smoke It”. And they no doubt would.

Tennant Creek advertising

As the first real taste of a town in the desert on your southern sojourn, Tennant Creek is quite something - its outskirts plying pinnacles of pointillist Spinifex grass motifs upon cone-shaped hills that imply a grand sky, rather than simply stating that it’s “there” in all its deep blue glory. It’s a town of about 3,000 people which now primarily services the Barkly Region (about the size of New Zealand but with less sheep) and is borne from a strong gold-mining heritage that’s easy to read from the signs to Battery Hill.

The Nyinkka Nyunyu Cultural Centre is definitely a “must see” in TC. And should your nerves be the kind that rattle without coffee, they have a proper machine and know how to work it, too. Although they are a little short-staffed at present, just ask the general manager to pop over and make your cupachino. (Well, that’s what the sign says at the roadhouse in the centre of town. Culture, you gotta love it.)

Further out is the aqueous wonder, MaryAnne Dam, a palatial reservoir of the precious commodity, here on open display for all to bask in its wet glory and is also ideal for a swim (which the seasoned traveller knows isn’t the same as a shower. Fortunately there is a cold one on offer if you can brave the occasional school group.) TC also marks your last chance to purchase supplies and perhaps some fuel before the final 500 kilometres to Alice Springs. (Some of the fuel prices on the next stretch would be easier to believe if the cashier had a parrot on his shoulder. But if that is your thing…)

Wycliffe Well, UFO Capital

Devil’s Marbles Conservation Reserve, or Karlu Karlyu as the Warumungu people call it, is a valley 100km south of TC, bearing witness to a series of four-plus-metres high spheroid rocks, lying, stacked and scattered in formations across the area. Eerie by twilight, this wonder of prehistoric geology is an intriguing place to stop and show some respect to the landscape. Standing abruptly amid the widening arid vista, the rocks resist the passage of time as they did the erosion of former inland seas, shifting to a deep red in the sunset and sunrise hues.

Should you have purchased a postcard earlier with some nothing-in-particular in mind – well, here comes something to write home about. “Way Out In Front” the signs of the buxom lass unashamedly proclaim – way out in front for what? Flies? Beer? Statues of Elvis and the incredible Hulk? The answer is the UFO centre of the arid centre: Wycliffe Well.

“It” by the bucket-load

This place truly has to be seen to be disbelieved: from the sizable UFO parked out the front and the small green round-headed man standing before it, to the realistic and astonishing sculptures residing within the campground, in competition only with the green ants for local supremacy. If ever there was an “It” then Wycliffe Well has “It” by the bucket-load. And that’s without the beer selection that is a true extension on the usual range of substandard poisons that do the rounds of front bars Territory wide. The frontier is still out there, but sometimes only between the ears of a brave few.

Barrow Creek is one of the last bastions of outbackdom on the trail to serendipity. Home to the legend of the strange disappearance of the Ford Falconio - not to mention the horseshoe moustache that made the alleged perpetrator famous. One man was tried and jailed, although the body is still missing - a piece of roadside folklore that inspired the film Wolf Creek. But for the many messes of our marsupial friends the perpetrator is obvious and still at large.

The many kangaroos that meet their maker in this stretch bear testament to their unusually large numbers round the many mesas and topological anomalies that make Barrow Creek whatever it is. Still a mystery to me, as is the level of UK well-spokenness of the licensee, stranger than anything else…

And, so (ahem). If it’s truth that you’re after then this tale has a shortcut to Alice Springs over the remaining 250kms. Now, if it was the wheel nuts, then that doesn’t really explain the same wheel popping out of the steering and turning perpendicular to the car only days later (after it was “fixed” the first time)…

But picture if you will: the final highway oddity – a man standing by the side of the road, walking back north, looking surprised and scratching his head. You’re sitting on a sensible century (100km/h) and he overtook you a little while before and, now, is looking for his front wheel. That’s right, exit stage left at 130 kilometres per hour, my front left tyre. One minute after my car stopped, with what I thought was a blow-out and discovered was a six and out* - with the ball in question still firmly out of play (and as yet unfound) - I was in said Other Car and on my way to my rendezvous in Alice.

Suffice to say I was talking to my new best friend for a while trying to calm my nerves and also convince him (and maybe me) that I wasn’t another of those wacky things on the roadside, so a few details like strange people in far-away roadhouses passed me by completely. I got some interesting stories out of him for his troubles but I don’t think he bought mine at all…

–Jack Brown

* Backyard cricketing term, where hitting the ball over the fence means you are out.

If you missed Jack’s first installment of Darwin to Alice by road, you can read it here. Planning a trip? Browse all of Viator’s Darwin tours and things to do in Alice Springs.

God is my pilot, and copilot, and navigator…

I’m not a frequent reader of christiantoday.com, but I did find this story illuminating (uplifting? enlightening?): apparently the Vatican has just launched its own low-cost airline.

It’s billed as the “first-ever Roman Catholic airline” with service from Rome to the world-famous pilgrimage site of Lourdes (more destinations are planned to Catholic holy sites in Poland, Spain and the Middle East). Currently service is offered on a lone Boeing 737 painted in the Vatican’s white and yellow colors (even the Pope’s gotta worry about brand consistency, you know).

The Vatican itself has no airline and no airport (just a helipad used by the Pope for local journeys), so the Vatican has done what any good corporation would do: it’s outsourced the flights to Mistral Air, which is owned by the Italian postal service.

We’re not sure what the beverage service will be, but it’s a safe bet that The Passion of The Christ will be a popular in-flight movie option. Another nice touch: the seat backs are decorated with the inscription “I search for your face, Lord”, which presumably is meant as an inspiration to pilgrims and has nothing whatsoever to do with runway markings or landing the plane safely.

–Scott McNeely

Planning a trip? Browse Viator’s Vatican Tours, including the Sistine Chapel and Vatican Museums, as well as all things to see and do in Rome and Toulouse.

There are those great moments when “no itinerary” and “total spontaneity” walk hand-in-hand to deliver a unique and completely memorable travel experience. This was the case a few weeks ago when I stumbled upon the Ellensburg Rodeo. Yes, rodeo.

Rope ‘em, cowboy!

Ellensburg is a quaint town located about two hours east of Seattle, tucked between Washington’s premier wine region and The Gorge Amphitheater, where the night before I enjoyed The Dave Mathews Band. As we headed west toward Seattle, “rodeo” was not on our radar.

In fact, as a self-proclaimed city slicker, I wouldn’t have given it one second of thought except when we drove through Ellensburg for a quick pit stop we found nearly every storefront window painted with rodeo renderings with banners out in force. The whole town had rodeo fever, welcoming out-of-towners (us) and wishing contestants good luck. It was Labor Day and the festivities had been going on all weekend.

In a matter of hours – and miles – it was as if we stepped into the heart of the West. Established in 1923, the Ellensburg Rodeo is one of the oldest in the United States and among the Top 25 Rodeo competitions paying out a $250,000 purse. Who knew? My boyfriend did. He actually went to Central Washington University in Ellensburg to study International Tourism although, somehow, he never mad it to “The Rodeo.” Apparently, he prefers two-wheeled transport (his road bike) to four-legged competitions. Without a schedule to stick to, we decided to give into chance and check out The Rodeo.

Now, I’m not total Rodeo Rookie. For years, I accompanied my grandparents to the Grand National Rodeo at the Cow Palace in San Francisco. In fact, my grandfather on my mother’s side was known in certain circles as “The Mule Man” and even made a video before his death about training the notoriously stubborn mule. The rodeo tradition abruptly ended the year I witnessed a horse step directly on a man’s head, rendering him brain dead. After that, I wasn’t so keen but I do understand how engaging… and dangerous, a rodeo can be.

City slickers at the rodeo

The Ellensburg Rodeo is real: real cowboys, real cowgirls and real rodeo livestock. The names of contestants were perfectly scripted: Jake, Wes, Chet, Cody… The preferred attire was Wranglers, over-powering belt buckles, worn and weathered boots and authentic 10-gallon hats. We weren’t exactly dressed for the part, wearing cotton shorts and t-shirts with caps but we were welcomed nonetheless.

Rodeo is a highly physical sport that doesn’t allow for much boredom. Our timing was perfect because we were seeing the best of the best in the finals of a three-day event. We arrived during the Tie-down Calf Roping and quickly saw the Saddle Bronc, Steer Roping, Barrel Racing, Women’s Breakaway Roping, and Saturday Night Bullriding. While bull riding is the most extreme and exciting, the most entertaining was Wild Cow Milking… yes, milking. I’m not sure how official this sport is, but it’s done in a number of rodeos.

In Milking, one cowboy on a horse ropes a cow around the neck and his teammate, coming from the arena’s perimeter and wrestles the cow while the one on the horse dismounts in order to draw milk. This must be done during an allotted time and the milk must be verified by a judge. Check out the video:

In only took about 5 minutes in our seats to understand why PETA and just about every other animal rights group wants to ban the sport of rodeo. It can be grueling and uncomfortable to watch… for the effects on the animals and the people.

It’s hard to argue that rodeos don’t have a place in American history and culture, however. I liken it to the bullfight in Spain. As part of tradition, the bullfight is a way of life and culture for many Spanish people yet there are many nationals who choose not to witness the gore of it.

For us, the unplanned Rodeo experience provided exposure to a part of America we rarely get to see and we were thankful for the opportunity to learn more about its legacy. It was a perfect spontaneous outing; although, I don’t expect to be following the Rodeo circuit any time soon.

If you’re interested in seeing a rodeo, you can check out the list of rodeos sanctioned by the Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association. If you can’t actually see one live, you might be able to see one on TV. There is a Pro Rodeo Tour - the Ellensburg Rodeo was stop 10 on the 12-stop Wrangler tour - and its site lists upcoming broadcasts.

–Dawn Lyon

Planning a trip? Browse all of Viator’s Seattle tours and things to do in USA.