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“You attend to the pancetta,” Fulvia said, as she walked through the open kitchen door into her sun-drenched yard. “I am going to the garden to pick the sage.” The cooking of our afternoon meal was well underway. Our ragu was simmering. Our pasta dough had been rolled into a ball and was wrapped and resting. Mary was cutting a large piece of smoked provolone into cubes, having cracked uova da bere – eggs “fresh enough to drink” - into a bowl that would be added to the puree of roasted fresh pumpkin, as well as the Italian bacon I was cooking at the stove. Fulvia, our new friend, cooking partner, and teacher for the day, was ensuring that the sage was picked just before it was needed, and not a moment sooner. Welcome to the best day of our trip so far. It was set in motion when Mary booked our Airbnb, and asked Marzia, the owner, if she knew of any food tours we might sign up for. Fulvia is her sister, who lives just on the edge of the countryside on the outskirts of Rome. She offers occasional cooking experiences. Thus did we find ourselves on a Thursday morning, a few blocks away from the Vatican and waiting in front of Mercato Trionfale, one of Rome largest food markets. Italians typically shop in small markets. But larger conglomerations of food vendors like this one are also common. It resembles what Americans would know as a farmer’s market, but is under a roof and open every day. Fulvia’s plan was to buy vegetables, bread, and cheese. But she was not overly specific other than to say that we would have artichoke in some form. “It is the season, no?” she said, as if referring to a federal law. This, we learn, is at the heart of Italian cooking (all good cooking, really). When it comes to vegetables, it is always best to eat what is in season. In America we demand ‘all vegetables all the time,’ and food producers oblige, at the expense of flavor. That's why tomatoes in the United States taste like mushy red paper, unless you have a friend with a garden. Of course there is a mountain of artichoke at the first stall we stop at. But there is also something else. “Have you had zucchini flowers?” she asked, picking up what looks like a small, slightly limp bouquet that might make a nice decoration. Mary wondered – correctly – if these might also be called “squash blossoms.” They were, and were added to the bag, along with the artichoke. There were other stops for cheese, cold cuts, fresh eggs, and bread. Then we stopped at a small café-like vendor. Mary and I were looking for water. And Fulvia declared it was time for coffee, which in Italy means approximately one heaping tablespoon of espresso. As we waited for the caffeine dose to be delivered, Fulvia and I talked about how we make it in America versus how it is made here. She is not a fan of the newer machines that involve inserting small plastic pouches into larger plastic devices, then pressing a button. “I still like the old way,” she said, pointing to a small, three-piece metal coffee maker that percolates water up and over a round filter of coffee grounds. “I know it takes five minutes, and the machine takes one minute. But if it takes one minute to make your coffee, then you have to be back at work in one minute.” She shrugged and laughed. “Ahhh, but I am telling you our secrets!” I nodded, and quickly wrote what she said in my notebook. Fulvia’s house is on the outskirts of Rome. But it might as well have been a hundred miles away. Like many Italian homes, it is surrounded by a high fence and vegetation. “Italians are very protective of their property,” she explained. Walking through the gate heightened the feeling of seclusion and specialness as we stepped into the yard, greeted by her two happy dogs. Before we went into her kitchen, Fulvia took us for a walk around the property, which seems to be at least two or three acres. She first showed us a lovely pergola, draped in vines and flowers, and made by her late husband. We could feel his presence as she described his woodworking talent, and the pleasure he got from making and planting things. We could also feel his presence when we got to an open spot of grass, with two chairs looking out across a field next to her property. “This is a beautiful place to watch the sunset,” she said. The outdoor tour ended at her large herb and vegetable garden, where she also raises honey bees. Then it was into the kitchen. Fulvia’s kitchen is beautiful, as is the house - a villa that seems in complete harmony with the lush landscape of the property. The kitchen is large, with a big wooden table – made by her late husband. But it is not a “showcase” kitchen. The appliances are solid, but not “professional.” She lit the burners on the stove with a small Bic lighter. Fulvia’s is a welcoming family kitchen, made for cooking family meals. We started by preparing a simple ragu – meat – sauce. That meant chopping an onion, a carrot, and a stalk of celery, and adding them to a pan with some olive oil. Once the onions started to turn golden, we added a combination of chopped beef and uncased pork sausage, breaking it up as it cooked. Afterwards we added diced tomatoes from a can, some red wine, salt, fresh oregano, fresh basil, and sugar, and let the whole thing simmer. Then we made our simple pasta dough, mixing flour and eggs and a pinch of salt and rolling the dough into two small balls. Each was wrapped in plastic and left to rest. Next up was the pumpkin flan, which neither Mary nor I had ever heard of. We were only familiar with the sweet flan, the custard-like Spanish dessert. We started with a sheet pan full of pumpkin chunks that Fulvia had roasted. Mary put them in a blender along with some eggs, cream, the aforementioned cubes of smoked provolone cheese, some parmesan cheese, the pancetta I had browned, the fresh sage and some salt and pepper. The whole thing was purreed, then scooped into ramekins and placed in the oven to cook at 350 for “about 20 minutes,” she said. The cleaning of the artichokes was fairly simple. We just pulled off the outer leaves until we got to ones that were mostly white, then peeled off the tough outer layer of the stems. Then we quartered the hearts of the artichoke, cut the stems into bite-size pieces, and put it all in a bowl of water with a fresh lemon. For the blossoms, we pulled off the stems, opened the flowers, and gently stuffed them with fresh mozzarella and anchovies. Each was then closed up and set aside. Then it was time for the salad. Fulvia had bought a bunch of puntarelle, which is a variant of chicory. It looks like green spaghetti. She mixed the it with a small amount of olive oil and vinegar, as well as some anchovies, and set it aside in the fridge. Now it was time to turn our dough into noodles, and we were introduced to a machine Fulvia simply called a “guitar.” As the name suggests, it was a wooden base, with an array of tight wires strung across an open area. We rolled out our dough into thin sheets, then cut them into flat shapes that fit on the guitar. Then we used a rolling pin to press the dough into the wires, cutting them into fettuccini. Before the final cooking started, it was time to make our dessert, the Italian classic, tiramisu. The first step was making a small pot of coffee, then we separated four egg yolks, and set aside two egg whites. The yolks were mixed with some sugar, mascarpone cheese and coffee, while I whipped the whites long enough to achieve stiff peaks, after which it was folded into the rest of the ingredients. I should note that Fulvia chose eggs from her own chickens, collected that morning. These were even fresher than the ones we bought in the market – reassuring as the recipe involves no baking. Next we took a box of rectangular shaped egg biscuits – Italian-style cookies. Each was dipped into hot coffee, then placed three across to cover the bottom of a rectangular ramekin. The custard was layered on top, and the whole process was repeated, sprinkled with chocolate powder and placed in the fridge. Finally it was time to make a simple batter for the blossoms and the artichoke. “You can use sparkling water for the batter,” Fulvia said. “But I prefer a beer. She opened a bottle of Moretti, and poured most of it in into the egg and flour mixture. We coated the artichoke with the batter, then carefully dipped each blossom. The blossoms went into the hot peanut oil first. The work itself was reward enough. But the lesson finished off with a lovely lunch - with some red wine, of course - under one of the pergolas in the yard. We enjoyed the delicious food, learned that Fulvia had just found out she is about to become a great aunt, and chatted about our shared love of cooking with friends. At the end of the meal, as we sat at the table and enjoyed a last bit of wine before coffee and the tiramisu, I asked Fulvia where she learned to cook. She paused for a moment, and smiled. “Living?” she said with a shrug. What a great day. Check out our other food stories here.

When an affable, interesting, infectiously enthusiastic Mumbai travel guide invites you to his apartment to sample homemade Parsi tea and a seasonal, date-based power sweet called Vasanu, it’s an easy yes. Fast forward to me watching Khurshed Mogrelia peel back the layer of fat on a saucepan full of yellowy buffalo milk, then spoon-shovel a generous portion of black pepper on top of it, and the enthusiasm flagged. I steeled myself for a polite ‘oooh-that’s-good’ sip as he fetched the rest of the ingredients from the fridge. Fast forward another 10 minutes and I was drinking the best cup of tea I’d ever tasted – a rich chai-like brew with an aromatic sweetness and just enough bite from that pepper. One of the things we look for when traveling is authentic experiences. This can be problematic, as “authenticity,” in the context of travel, often means its opposite – an experience designed with tourists in mind to recreate an experience believed to be authentic. Sometimes you really do find it, though. And you remember why you look. Khurshed – “Call me K” - was our guide for a “Mumbai at Dawn” tour that started at 5:30 a.m.. The highlight was the bustling Sassoon Dock fish market, where 40 tons of fish are sold at hundreds of impromptu live auctions every morning, in a breakneck race against the rising sun and Mumbai’s sweltering heat. Later we passed a Parsi cafe, and K explained his own ethnic and religious heritage. Parsi – sometimes spelled Parsee – refers to the ethnic group of Zoroastrians, many of whom fled Iran centuries ago. They now make up a small-and-getting-smaller religion, one of the oldest in the world. But because it does not allow people to join by converting and insists that only children of two Parsi parents can call themselves members of the group, its numbers are declining. There are about 120,000 Zoroastrians in the world today, many of whom live in Mumbai. K explained that his apartment building is a Parsi community. That’s when he invited us to his apartment after the tour, for some of his Parsi tea and a chat with his mother, a Parsi chef. We arrived at the apartment and met Mahrukh Mogrelia, K’s mother. Though just waking up, she was unfazed by the surprise visitors and welcomed us as her son began to assemble his tea. First came the aforementioned buffalo milk, which was stored in an open saucepan in the fridge. K explained that he and his family prefer it to cow’s milk, then he held back the layer of fat that sat on the top and filled four tea cups halfway. He topped each of them off with water, then poured them all into another saucepan. “That’s the easiest way to get the right amount,” he explained. Then came the pepper, several spoons of black pepper to be exact. Well, exact is probably the wrong word. There were no measuring spoons or cups in sight, as K said he goes "by instinct." As the pan began to heat up, he added a generous portion of loose tea leaves. Although they were store-bought, he pointed out that they were “premium.” Then he retrieved bunches of mint and lemongrass from the fridge. He took a handful of mint, twisted it in his hands to tear it and extract some of the juice, then put the whole thing into the pan. He repeated this process with the lemon grass. He let everything come to a boil before turning it down to a simmer. Then he announced that we would also try some of his mother's Vasanu, a nutritious Parsi recipe made in winter. Mahrukh explained that the cooking process is complicated, involving many ingredients that are cooked at different times, then all mixed together at left to settle, either in a cool spot or in the fridge. At the heart of it is ghee – clarified butter. While she served up the Vasanu, K gave the tea a last burst of heat, raising the temperature until it almost bubbled over, then turning it off. He poured the mixture through a strainer into four teacups, and brought them to the table. “Would you like it with sugar, or jaggery?” he asked. “I don’t know what jaggery is,” I replied. I might as well have said I didn’t know what salt was, or bread. “Jaggery! Jaggery!” he repeated. Mahrukh explained that jaggery is a sort of natural sweetener commonly used in India. She also suggested that I take my tea with sugar, which I did. We bravely sipped this buffalo milk/lemon grass/mint/pepper/tea concoction, while K eyed us for a reaction. He must have noticed my look when he was loading on the pepper, and his face lit up when I so obviously liked the finished product. You notice the pepper, of course. But it is balanced against the sweetness from the sugar, mint and lemon grass, as well as the creaminess of the milk. I could imagine myself getting used to this pleasant taste-jolt on a cold morning back home. Then we tasted the Vasanu, which is also sweet, with a dense, nutty flavor. It’s the sort of thing you can imagine being cut into protein bars, and Mahruhk said it is filled with nutrients. “Eat just a little bit of this in the morning, and you are all set,” she said. I've looked up the ingredients, which it's hard to imagine I'll find them back in the states. The tea, on the other hand, will definitely be on my menu back home, though likely with good old cow's milk. You can't always get invited into people's homes for tea. But the lesson here is to seek out people like K, who love their culture and want to share it. After rising before the sun and touring the city while most others slept, we headed back to our hotel for a mid-morning nap, nourished by the new flavors we'd discovered, and the new friends we'd made. Check out our other travel stories here.

It took me 59 years to visit Asia for the first time and I still wasn’t ready for Mumbai, a city of jarring contrasts that overwhelms the senses. It is crowded – bursting at the seams with a population roughly the same as Texas packed into 233 square miles. (I’ll save you the look-up click: Texas is more than 1,100 times larger, at more than 260,000 square miles.) And more than half of Mumbai residents live in its famous slums. But it is also friendly, with people happy to help you, and speaking that sing-song hybrid of colonial British with a Hindi accent. Most of them also practice one of the oldest religions in the world that seems very focused on finding the good in ourselves, finding the good in others, good karma, and happiness. What's not to like? Mumbai traffic may be the best metaphor for the place. A never-ending procession of cars, motor-scooters, bicycles, and pedestrians mingle in a state of constant motion, often coming within inches of each other. The tooting horns seem to say 'excuse me, please,' rather than 'outta my way!' and there is hardly ever a raised voice. If someone cuts in front of you, it is only because they got to a spot a microsecond ahead of you. You slow down, let them pass, and everyone keeps moving. It's as if someone at some point said: “Look, there are a lot of us here. If we sit politely and wait for each other, or stand around yelling about cutting the line, we’ll never get anywhere. Namaste. Just keep moving.” It's a messy city. The combination of a poverty, a tropical climate, and density the likes of which we don't see in the most crowded American cities, means that the streets are not tidy. Now throw in the fact that cows, considered sacred in Hindu culture, walk the streets freely, leaving the occasionally patty on the sidewalk or street. Mumbai is, um, lived in. But there are also oases of calm, from temples, mosques and churches, to high-rise apartments, luxury hotels, fancy shops and restaurants. Our lodging – booked on points – was at the legendary Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, on the water in downtown Mumbai. It was built almost 120 years ago by an Indian businessman tired of being excluded from places that were only for the British and other white patrons. He vowed to build the most beautiful hotel in the city, and that it would welcome all guests. He did. The Taj remains one of the best hotels in Mumbai. It is an architectural landmark on the city's waterfront, adjacent to the Gateway to India, a relic of the Mumbai's days as a center of British colonialism. The Taj strikes a perfect balance between Indian tradition and modern elegance and amenities. And it has cool factor as the place where Ravi Shankar taught George Harrison to play sitar in 1966. Normally I am more of a stroll-around-and-explore-the-city guy. But Mumbai cries out for hiring a local guide/driver. It is simply too sprawling, with the aforementioned traffic challenges. We used a travel agency to book several tours, none of which disappointed. One highlight was a trip to one of Mumbai’s three primary railroad stations, the Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus. It is impressive to see the trains pull in one after another, disgorging massive crowds of commuters into the city. The station serves three million people per day, a staggering number when you consider that Grand Central Terminal in New York serves about 750,000. (And remember, it's one of three Mumbai terminals.) While throngs of Mumbai commuters flowed past us near the entrance of the station, we were on the lookout for a small cadre of white-hatted riders who arrive every morning at about 11. They are the Dabbawala, part of a lunch delivery service that goes back more than 120 years. This low-tech DoorDash delivers more than 200,000 hot, home-cooked lunches every day. According to one of our guides, Indians place a high value on a fresh-cooked, healthy lunch. This demand spawned the Dabbawalas. The process starts in suburbs, or neighborhoods outside downtown, where Dabbawalas fan out to workers’ homes to gather the fresh-cooked lunches every day at about 10 a.m.. Once loaded on trains, the lunches converge on the city in luggage cars, where they are taken off and sorted using a number and color-code system, then delivered to offices throughout the downtown. The whole system costs users about $15 per month, and has been studied by business efficiency experts. One can imagine an American approach involving smart phones and gadgets like conveyor belts and sorting machines. Mumbai gets it done with people, hand-carts, bicycles, and codes written in sharpie on lunch boxes. We also stopped at a busy downtown overpass to look out on the Dhobi Ghat, the world’s largest outdoor laundry. From above it looks like a sea of clothes lines, with drying linens, blue jeans, tee shirts and other clothing stretching out almost as far as you can see. A closer look reveals concrete washing pens on the ground, each fitted with its own flogging stone. Mixed in among the washing stations are rickety shacks, mostly covered with corrugated plastic panels. This, our guide said, is where the several thousand washers who work there live. They wake up six days a week and clean more than 100,000 pieces of clothing. As we drove around town, our guide pointed out various religious temples and symbols. The majority of Indians practice Hindi. But there are also Muslims, Buddhists, Jews, Zoroastrians, Jainists - noted for their strict vegetarian lifestyle – and a surprising number of Catholics. The last group is a reminder that India was originally colonized by the Portuguese, who were followed by Jesuit missionaries. We expressed interest in visiting a Hindu temple, and soon found ourselves walking into a midday gathering. At the front of the room a religious person seemed to be making his way through a ritual blessing of a shrine with flowers and incense. At one side of the room a group of musicians played a lively, repetitive musical tune as a cantor and many of the people present repeated the Hare Krishna mantra. Most people were singing along and dancing. I watched one musician put down his instrument and dance, with an unmistakable expression of happiness on his face. Our guide, a Catholic, gave us a brief lesson in historical theology, explaining that Hinduism believes that each person contains a small part of God in their soul. "When you respect one person as a God, you are not going to do them harm," he said. "That's why in the Abrahamic tradition we say: 'Peace be with you.' Why? Because of that." We were at the temple for at least 20 minutes and the music never stopped. Mary and I both agreed that we walked out feeling better than we walked in. It was a great experience. Another highlight was an early morning visit to the Sassoon Docks fish market, one of several in the city. As one might imagine in an ocean-front city originally built on a series of seven islands, seafood is a staple part of the diet. Every day fleets of small fishing boats offload their catch into markets like this, where they and vendors engage in a race against the rising sun – and the fish-rotting Mumbai heat it brings - to buy and sell their wares. Deals are often settled after impromptu auctions, which seem to pop up without warning. We walked among the stalls, jumping out of the way of carts and ducking our heads to avoid being hit by some of the larger species, including a swordfish carried over one man’s shoulder. The odor was powerful, but not unpleasant. As one who grew up near the water, I recognized it as the smell of truly fresh fish. Other visits included several of the city's bustling markets, where we walked among exotic fruits and vegetables, beautiful flowers, colorful spices, and textiles. Mumbai also offers the gamut of dining options, from high-end restaurants to food carts. We had a memorable evening meal at Chowpatty Beach, where food trucks gather along the wide sandy expanse. Some have chairs and tables nearby. Others put out rugs, her their customers can claim a spot on the ground. We also ate at the Leopold Cafe, a no-nonsense dining spot made famous in the best-selling novel/memoir "Shantarum," by Gregory David Brooks. The closest thing I could compare it to would be the Billy Goat in Chicago, or the Union Oyster House in Boston - a well-worn spot that attracts a certain number of tourists, but mostly locals looking for a drink and some good, basic, affordable food. It's hard to convey what is so unique about Mumbai, and I'm not sure I'm doing a good job. It is a city of close proximity and constant motion, with no inhibition. The slums are hard to miss and hard to reconcile. The casual visitor might assume that they are simply the place where the poor people live, like any number of tougher neighborhoods in a U.S. city. Then you see one - you can't miss it when you land at the airport - and realize they are massive, uninterrupted jigsaws of make-shift shacks. And then you realize that more than half the people who live in Mumbai live in a slum. That is many millions of people. One guide urged us to "do the math" as we looked around at the bustling downtown. His point was that many of the people we were looking at, dressed in normal clothes and headed to work in offices or shops, lived in slums. This may explain the energy of Mumbai, where rich and poor and in between live together in such close proximity. In the heart of Mumbai stands Antilia, a 27-floor residence owned by Indian billionaire Mukesh Ambani. We drove by it, and were told about it, each time with a tone somewhere between pride and awe, several times in our three-day stay. It has more than 400,000 square feet of living space, a 168-car garage, and it cost more than $1 billion to build in 2012. Many of the floors in the building feature extra high ceilings, meaning it is actually as tall as a typical 60-story building. It has accommodations for a staff of 600. The tower is a short scooter ride from the Dhobi Ghat, the aforementioned outdoor laundry. The workers there, when they wash themselves from buckets and climb hand-made ladders into make-shift rooftop shacks, can see it easily. They can also see other luxury high-rises, and the gleaming offices of most major global corporations. Mumbai, remember, is the financial capital of India, a nation of 1.4 billion people. I urge anyone with an interest in experiencing new cultures and different ways of living together in close proximity to each other, to visit Mumbai. I know we won't soon forget it. Check out our other travel posts here.

I was 8,600 miles from home and the bridal party was taking advantage of the afternoon sun for group pictures, so I used the delay to adjust my pink turban in the tropical heat. A tall, bearded man wearing a bluish green headpiece for the groom’s side and a Sherwani that seemed to fit better than mine turned and asked me if I was ready to sing. Two Punjabi drummers began a thundering, hypnotic beat that would roar for 45 minutes, and the colorful crowd began what New Orleanians would recognize as a second line - a joyful walk-dance escort for the bride and groom on their way to the Yagna Pooja. Welcome to the midway point of Day Three at our first Indian wedding. I’ve always been a fan of ethnic wedding traditions, which I’ve mostly experienced as diversions woven into the traditional American celebrations. (My younger cousins performed an Irish dance at my wedding.) But this was an actual Indian wedding. In India. The parents of the bride were part of a crew of old friends who I’ve known since we ruled the bars and breakfast joints of Chicago’s north side in the late 1980s. Most of us are empty nesters in one form or another, and we'd been wearing out the group text for months in giddy anticipation. Now we were here, bearing suitcases packed with traditional Indian formalwear, along with sunscreen and malaria pills. Although the groom is from Mumbai, the wedding was held in the resort area of Goa, a few hundred miles to the south. We took over the Grand Hyatt Goa for the better part of a week. Day one started with a bridesmaid’s luncheon for the ladies. We didn’t arrive in time for Mary to make it. But we were ready to go for the Mehendi, a large outdoor reception that featured henna body art. While we reconnected with old friends and were introduced to new ones, the ladies sat down in small groups to have elaborate artwork drawn on their hands by very talented – and amazingly fast-working – artists. Day two started with the Haldi, an Indian ceremony aimed at calming the nerves of the busy couple by applying soothing natural pastes. Yash’s aunt, an effervescent, friendly woman named Neeta, explained what was happening for us Westerners. “They’ve been working, hectically preparing for their big day,” she said. “So there is a lot of anxiety. There is a lot of heat in the body which is coming up. So they need to be calm and relaxed.” The paste was made with sandalwood, turmeric, saffron, and other “medicinal herbs,” she said. While music played, we all waited in line for a turn to greet Yash and Kate on the stage, and apply a small amount of the paste to their arms or face. It was very fun, with just the right mix of silliness and intimacy to make the moment special. As with all things Indian, it was very colorful, with flowers everywhere. After that was the “Western Wedding,” a nod to our side of the aisle. The ceremony was set against a magnificent sunset on the Arabian Sea. Yash and Kate, a lovely couple who met at the University of Wisconsin, read their own vows. Family members offered readings. And it was all followed by cocktails and a reception. The Indian wedding band, in Ray Bans and Buddy Holly tuxedos, played great American dance music. Day three started with yet another cultural turn, a Quaker Meeting. It was a nod to Kate’s high school alma mater, a Quaker school outside Philadelphia. In that religious tradition, we all sat quietly, and shared whatever thoughts came into our minds. My friend Bill took the words out of my mouth when he pointed to our group, and urged Kate and Yash to nurture their friendships. Next came the Safa Bandi, a gathering of the men for the assembly of our turbans. We were instructed to arrive in the Sherwani – long Indian shirt – we would be wearing, as we would not be able to put anything on or take anything off once the turban was built. Then each of us, in turn, sat down under the care of an Indian gentleman, holding about 20 feet of fabric. (He may or may not have retrieved more when he saw my Big Irish Head.) He started by placing one end in my hand, and telling me to hold it tight against my chest. Then he wrapped it carefully, creating a handsome headpiece, decorated with a broach in front. Then we all stood around admiring his handiwork, some of us drinking tea. Next it was time for the Nach Baliye, which is where this story started. In a typical Indian wedding, this would involve the groom, often on a white horse, processing in celebratory dance with his family and friends to greet the bride and her family. Yash and Kate improvised, and rode together slowly, standing and dancing in an open car, while we all danced around them. The man who turned and asked me if I was ready to sing, also offered some basic lessons in Indian dance, as did Neeta. And everyone got in the spirit of the moment. Some formed circles, with a dance leader in the middle. Others clapped and moved. At one point a group of dancing young men jumped on Yash and Kate’s car, playfully stopping its progress as they danced and mugged for pictures. All of this happened under the bright tropical sun, with the sea in the background. The next stage of the event was the Yagna Pooja, a Hindu prayer service. The groom’s mother was not at the wedding, as she was in the hospital receiving treatment for a very serious illness. She was particularly remembered at this event, with prayers offered for her recovery. On a large raised platform spreading across the lawn, 10 small stations were set up, each around a fire pit. Four people from the groom’s side and four people from the bride’s side gathered around each station, while a group of Hindu priests sung a series of prayers. Each time a certain word was spoken, we would all toss some herbs into the fire. The idea, we were told, was to purify the air and let the smoke and fire lift our prayers. I couldn’t understand the words, but quickly realized that one prayer was being repeated over and over again. At first glance it might seem like we were doing something wholly different from anything I ever experienced growing up Catholic. Then I recognized the ritual as, more or less, a rosary. It was easy to fall into a comforted trance. I thought about my late parents, whose marriage lasted 62 years, and tried to project that good feeling onto Yash and Kate. When it was over, I felt calm and peaceful, even if I did need help getting up from sitting on a cushion for so long. Next came the Sangeet, an Indian reception that started with an all-wedding dance contest. One by one, various groups of friends and family took the stage to perform choreographed dance routines that we had all learned. Mary and I had been practicing our part all across Europe. I will leave it to the critics to assess our performance. A nice moment for me was sitting watching the other groups. I was next to Sanjay, the groom’s uncle. When the bride’s aunts and uncles performed – the mother of the bride is one of six children, all of whom I have known for years – he asked me to tell him the name of everyone on stage. He listened carefully, and I was impressed by his effort. The reception was our introduction to Bollywood-style, Hindi pop music, which I believe is impossible not to dance to when you hear it. We let the youngsters do most of the work on the dance floor. But Mary and I had one of those moments where you are swept away by the volume and the beat, and dance without caring about anything other than the fact that you are dancing. At one point, when the music was particularly fast and loud, a young Indian man turned and started dancing with me. I did my best to keep up. I interpreted his intense gaze, then nod and smile, as an acknowledgement that an old white dude was getting into the spirit. We walked off the dance floor and tried to find our friends. “Could they have gone up to their rooms?” Mary asked, surprised. I pulled out my phone and showed it to her. It was 1:48 a.m. Was India a long way to travel for a wedding? Heck yes. But this was a very good wedding. And these were very good friends. The best way to learn about a new culture is to dive right in, as we all did together. One of our group called it "the experience of a lifetime," which I know is a cliche. Except when it isn't. As I sit here writing this, I remember that our trip started six weeks ago at another wedding, in Providence, where the son of another old friend got married. It was also a great wedding, teeming with happy people and lots of dancing - including an impromptu Irish jig by the father of the groom. I sat at a table with people I met 42 years ago, when we were moving into the first floor of Claver Hall at Boston College, in the Fall of 1980. Here's to old friends. Check out our other travel posts here.

I might as well have driven down to Mississippi a hundred years ago. But it was March of 2020. Peering back through the lockdown haze, I remember a carefree, hastily-organized Clarksdale stopover on a Chicago-to-Atlanta road trip - a fascinating and thirsty wander around the mud-caked cradle of Mississippi Delta Blues that was filled with wonderful music and memorable characters, and punctuated by an ominous conversation with a German tourist. “Really?” I said after learning he was an infectious disease specialist. “So, what do you make of this corona virus thing that everyone seems to be talking about?” “Vell,” he said with a very German accent and a shrug. “Vee vill all get it, no?” I thought about that a lot on the drive back to Chicago, then stumbled into the two-year Covid blur that was book-ended by the deaths of my father and mother – he from what seems like it was Covid (early in the pandemic, so no testing available); she from a stroke, and a broken heart. As I finally began to think about traveling again, I found myself drawn back to Clarksdale and its music. And I wondered if the simple, 12-bar blues that grew out of slavery, poverty, heartache and loneliness might have anything to offer someone staggering out of a Covid depression. Let the record show that my life as a Connecticut-born, college educated, reasonably affluent white male has nothing in common with African American sharecroppers like Muddy Waters, Son House, and Robert Johnson. Claiming the music as my own is not the goal here. Looking to it for comfort is. I wondered if the emotion of authentic, well-played Blues music might be especially relevant in the world After Covid, and if some sort of redemption could still be found along Highway 61, an hour south of Memphis. I talked my wife into a return trip. Clarksdale is not for the feathered pillow set. Don’t go looking for turned down beds or Michelin stars. Mississippi is one of the poorest places in the country, and the Delta – occupying a large chunk of the Northwest corner of the state – is hardly booming. But you’ll find decent, even interesting lodgings. And there’s excellent food of you look for it. More than anything, however, you'll find authenticity. The locals do their best to promote the town, and make sure there's live music playing every night. But it hasn't been shined and polished - or even faux distressed - by the Convention and Visitor's Bureau types. Clarksdale is real. First, a very brief history lesson. Former slaves and their descendants – along with poor whites like Johnny Cash - toiled for decades in the fertile southern soil along the Mississippi. The so-called “Delta blues,” played on acoustic guitars accompanying simple, emotional lyrics in a style that borrowed from church spirituals, work-gang songs, and bawdy juke-joint romps, grew out of this life. When African Americans moved north looking for factory work, they brought their guitars, often plugging them into rudimentary amplifiers to be heard above the urban noise. This electronic Blues music became the roots of rock and roll, which is why places like Clarksdale attract both pure fans of the genre as well as modern musicologists looking for the source. Clarksdale today is a sleepy, economically struggling burg that clings with great enthusiasm and not a lot of flash to its Blues roots. It is the kind of place where you can walk into an artsy book shop and chat with the owner, only to have him pause the conversation and introduce you to one of the greatest blues harmonica players in the world. “This is Charlie Musselwhite,” Roger Stolle said to me as he nodded at the grey-haired, Covid-masked gentleman who had just entered his shop. A Mississippi native, Musselwhite said he’d just left California because of the increasingly persistent wildfires there. He moved to Clarksdale to be closer to family, and also to a creative energy he said is baked into the soil. “It seems like people in the Delta, many people seem compelled to create, whether they’re trained or not, whether they’re folk artists or poets; sculptors and writers and painters and, of course, musicians too,” he said. “There’s just something about that that’s just really nice to be around.” “That might sound a little mystical,” he continued. “But if you come here and you love the blues, you’ll know what I’m talking about. It’s the kind of thing, you can’t really nail down, but you’ll recognize it. And it’s almost like when you meet somebody for the first time and it seems like you’ve been friends forever. That’s what coming to Clarksdale’s like. It feels like home.” Stolle, a cultural jack-of-all-trades whose Cat Head Delta Blues and Folk Art shop is a kind of living community bulletin board, echoed Musselwhite’s assessment. He suggested that the Blues helped the town through Covid. “With blues music … it was all sort of making something out of nothing, because a lot of people had nothing,” Stolle said. “I feel like being this Blues town gave us that extra edge … We’re very fortunate to have this entrepreneurial spirit.” I’d found that spirit in places like the Bluesberry Café on my first night in town on the first trip. The room was barely half full, and I picked out a cracked vinyl booth and took pull on my first cold beer after eight hours of driving. The four-piece band was wandering back to the one-step riser after a break when I noticed a dishwasher walking out of the kitchen in a red apron, a trash bag in each hand. He was an older man and he stopped in front of the stage and nodded at the guitar player who’d just sat down. He put down the trash bags and the guitar player eased into a familiar blues progression. Then Bill "Watermelon Slim" Homans - one of the owners of the place, it turns out - lit into full-volume, Delta-soaked rendition of “Catfish Blues.” “Well I wish I was a catfish Swimming in the deep blue sea I’d have all you pretty women Fishin’ after me” The next day I was on a personal tour with local native William “Chilly Billy” Howell, bouncing his bright red jeep past pecan groves, cotton fields, and up and down the ever-present Mississippi River levee. He runs his own operation: Delta Bohemian Tours, which is essentially him and as many people as can fit in the Jeep. He’s the kind of person who pauses for a wave and a “hah-yew-doin” chat with almost everyone we pass, which makes the tour even better. He took me up and over the levee for an elusive stroll along the actual banks of the Mighty Mississippi. (Although the region is defined by the river, the 1,600-mile-long levee that protects it from flooding on both sides makes enjoying the actual river not as easy as it should be.) We wound up at the edge of the Stovall family farm, where McKinley Morganfield lived and worked before he was “discovered” and changed his name to Muddy Waters. Folklorist Alan Lomax taped Waters at Stovall in 1942, a recording he said gave him the confidence to quit his job, move to Chicago, and help create a new genre of music – electronic blues. The Morganfield sharecropper’s shack is now on display in the Delta Blues Museum in Clarksdale, leaving just a small marker at the spot now. Nothing fancy. Just a weathered plaque surrounded by rich, Delta soil, and a gnarly old tree bent sideways, like a laborer picking cotton, that caught my attention. "Muddy Waters pissed on that tree,” Chilly Billy said. Also on the outskirts of Clarksdale sits the Hopson Plantation, perhaps one of the most interesting lodging options in the area. The site is famous as the farm where American Harvester first used a machine - even cheaper than cheap labor - to harvest cotton. It was a development that contributed significantly to the Great Migration of African Americans to northern industrial cities. Now Hopson is a gathering of recreated sharecropper shacks available to tourists looking for the "real" experience. My wife and I toured one two-bedroom unit that featured Spartan-but-clean amenities, including a small kitchen and a lovely back porch. We vowed to return with friends, and guitars. (If you don't own a guitar, the hotel will loan you one when you check in.) Perhaps the biggest Hopson attraction is the juke joint at the center of the shacks. So-called “Jukes” were at the heart of Blues culture. They were often little more than shacks where rural impresarios would hire musicians and sell refreshments to locals looking to let their hair down. Another excellent option is the Traveler’s Hotel, in the heart of downtown. A reclaimed building that was at various times, railroad bunkhouse and a printing shop, it is now run as a sort of artist’s collective. Most of the operation is app-based and self-serve, right down to a lobby bar that is “self-tap” and runs on the honor system. You pour yourself a beer, then write your name and room number down in a little notebook on the bar. Local artists help run the place in return for free housing and studio space. Our room was “retro chic,” with an extremely comfortable bed and easy proximity to everything downtown. Our favorite restaurant was Hooker’s Grocery, but Abe’s Barbecue is solid as well. Just outside of downtown is local favorite Ramons (pronounced Ray-muns). I loved it on my first trip, but guessed Mary wouldn’t enjoy a menu that is almost entirely fried food. Clarksdale boasts live music every night of the week. The scene is anchored by the Ground Zero Blues Bar, partly owned by Mississippi-born actor Morgan Freeman. We also caught a great set in Red’s, a no-nonsense joint with the vibe of a low-rent house party. We were sitting so close to the bass player that I could have played a chord. You feel like the folks running the place simply took over an abandoned bar, especially when you order a beer and the guy reaches into a battered cooler - not a vintage tavern cooler, mind you, but the kind two people would lug out to the yard for a barbecue - to hand you a can of Miller Lite. Cash only. Although we listened to music late into the evening both nights we were there, it was on our last morning that I felt at least a hint at why I came back. It was back at the Bluesberry Café, this time in the morning. As we sat at our table, wondering without malice or complaint if the coffee we’d ordered from the lone, elderly waitress would ever arrive, I once again marveled at the passion of Watermelon Slim. It was 9 o’clock in the morning on a Saturday. There were maybe 15 people in the place. And he was making his table-top guitar wail and scream under the bottleneck on his finger. He was singing – shouting, really – a song as if it was the only thing in the world that mattered. It wasn’t just a song. It was the real deal. Watermelon Slim is an old guy, singing several times a day about a tough life as he tries to make a living in a very poor place. I could reach for a comparison between the blues of the Delta and the mournful keening of my Irish ancestors. But that would be the kind of overthinking people always do about music like this. It was just nice to listen to real music, and to let it make me feel however I felt. Check out our other music posts here.

It was the mid-1950s and, for better or worse, the “Nashville Sound” was taking shape. It didn’t seem to matter whether they were love songs, gettin’ drunk songs, murder ballads, or honky tonk shufflers, syrupy strings and smooth backing vocals were the order of the day. This was not the case on the city’s north side. Nightclubs in the black neighborhood that would eventually be bulldozed to make way for I-40 – funny how that happened in city after city - were alive with the foot-stomping rhythms and gritty soul that sounded more Motown or Memphis than Music Row. And they weren’t just happening in the clubs. Television shows like Night Train and The Beat, showcasing both local and national artists singing R&B, were popular, as were radio stations like WLAC. Perhaps most notably, given what was happening elsewhere in the country, especially in the South, black musicians from the R&B scene were landing spots in otherwise white country outfits like Roy Acuff’s Grand Ol’ Opry house band. And they were regularly teaming up with A-team songwriters and session players, who saw talent rather than skin color. Hats off to Nashville’s Country Music Hall of Fame and Museum for carefully and compellingly bringing that vibrant scene to life in its exhibit, “Night Train to Nashville: Music City Rhythm and Blues, 1945-1970.” The award-winning exhibit was showcased at the museum for two years almost 20 years ago. But it has recently been converted to a digital presentation and is now available online. You can (and should) experience it here. The museum recently celebrated the second life of the exhibit with an event at the CMA Theatre, featuring conversation and music with some of the stars from that scene, as well a set from Nashville’s up-and-coming country-soul duo, The War and Treaty. Frank Howard and the Commanders were regulars on the scene then. And Howard was on the pre-concert panel. “We did a lot of jumping up and down and splitting,” he said with a laugh. “But we could sing too.” Peggy Gaines Walker – she was just Peggy Gaines when she started singing in the black clubs as a teenager - remembered the night she and another underage friend snuck in, followed a short while later by “the trench coats breaking down the door.” It was the police. “What were they there for?” museum curator Michael Gray asked. “Well, they were probably looking for underage kids,” Gaines Walker said, drawing a laugh. She said someone hustled her and her friend down a hall and told them to hide upstairs. That’s when they found themselves bursting into the dressing room of Aretha Franklin. “What are you girls doing here?” Gaines Walker said, in an unmistakable imitation of the Queen of Soul. “Does your mama know you're here?” Although Franklin scolded the girls, the experience was still a thrill. “I tried to be her,” Gaines Walker said. Also remembered from those days was a young guitarist, just out of the army, who cut his teeth in Nashville and soon became known for his “magic guitar.” “That’s where I learned to play, really, Nashville,” Jimi Hendrix is quoted in one of the exhibits as saying. Howard recalled playing with Hendrix, whom he described as a “really nice guy.” Although he and bassist friend Billy Cox plugged right into the tight rhythms the R&B music required, Howard said Hendrix was starting to wander into the more experimental phrasing that would shake the music world a few years later. The conversation and recollections were interesting. But the highlight of the evening was the music. Anchored by the Jimmy Church and his band - a full ensemble featuring bass, guitar, drums, keyboard, and a four-piece horn section – artists from that era took the stage to sing two songs each. On the bill were Howard, Gaines Walker, Levert Allison of the Fairfield Four, and Charles "Wigg" Walker. All were clearly in their 70s or 80s, and walked slowly out on stage, some with help. But they all shook off the rust as soon as the music started, delivering performances that would have been impressive even if they were younger. Gaines, in particular, brought the crowd to its feet when she roared into the first words of Aretha Franklin’s “Chain of Fools.” Equally impressive was The War and Treaty, a husband and wife duo of Michael Trotter Jr and Tanya Trotter who have emerged as a powerful new act that spans the country soul genres. Before their first song, Michael Trotter got in the spirit of the evening, positing that R&B and Country have more in common than people think. "It's the stories, the emotions," Trotter said. "Just the music is different, the way you swing it." He then paid tribute to Ray Charles, who he called a hero. The War and Treaty recently moved from Michigan to Nashville, perhaps raising eyebrows among fans who saw them as more of a soul or R&B group. Charles, Trotter noted, famously went against the advice of his record company and made a country album, "The Modern Sounds of Country and Western Music." Trotter and his wife then offered their own take on Charles' "You Don't Know Me." If you don't know The War and Treaty yet, do yourself a favor and fix that. Check out their latest single here. Check out our other music posts here.

At some point during the pandemic, as we were savoring the 16-hour binge that is Ken Burns’ Country Music documentary, Mary and I became obsessed with Marty Stuart. If you watched it but don’t remember the names, he was the guy with the stylish neck cloth, the thick mane of feathered gray hair, and the encyclopedic knowledge of country music history, much of it shared in first-hand accounts from a professional career that goes back to 1968, when he was 10. We finally got to see him in concert, a white-hot set with his Fabulous Superlatives at Chattanooga’s Walker Theatre. It’s always nice when high expectations for a show are not only met but exceeded. Stuart is one of those artists who stands in his own musical place; a weathered stage floorboard somewhere between bluegrass, honky tonk, California surf riffs, Laurel Canyon folk-rock, 90s country pop, and old timey gospel. A child prodigy who began touring with Lester Flatt when he was 14, Stuart is arguably the best mandolin player in the world, and no slouch on the guitar. And this high standard carries over to his choice of bandmates. Kenny Vaughan, whom Stuart introduces as “the best guitar player in the world,” joins on the six-string. Handsome Harry Stinson is on drums. And Gary Scruggs, grandson of bluegrass banjo legend Earl Scruggs, plays bass. Everyone sings. Everyone in the band is good at what they do. And it would be easy to offer a cliché like a well-oiled machine to describe the overall presentation. But it is more like a bootleggers getaway car, careening through the show in a precise blur of riffs and rhythms. Stuart and Vaughn trade solos, and sometimes solo together in harmony. And they do it so effortlessly, and at such high speeds, that whoops and gasps from the audience are part of the show. They manage to show off their licks without appearing self-indulgent, following the prime directive of Nashville music that everything must be played in service of the songs. I found an interview with Vaughan in which he was asked by guitar journalist Zac Childs why he enjoys playing with Stuart. “It’s fun!” he said. “We have a solid four-piece band and we throw it down. We have over 100 songs that we can do at the drop of a hat. We can play anything from a performing arts hall to a honky tonk, to a church on Sunday morning. We just press go.” This versatility also helps the pace of the show, which slows down occasionally so everyone can catch their breath. One moment in the show we saw was a tribute to the late Marty Robbins, whom Stuart was named after by his mother, a fan. All four members came to the center of the stage to harmonize a pitch-perfect cover of Robbins’ cowboy classic, “El Paso.” Later they also brought their voices together for “Get Down on Your Knees and Pray,” a Bill Monroe song. While Stuart is the star, each of the band members was given a few songs to show that they are more than just background players. Vaughan led the crowd through two of his own songs, “Country Music Got a Hold on Me,” and a lively call-and-response number called “Hot Like That.” Stinson paid tribute to Woody Guthrie with “Pretty Boy Floyd.” And Scruggs somehow conjured the iconic Ventures “Wipe Out” guitar riff on his stand-up bass, then offered a nice version of "The Ballad of Easy Rider.” Also in the spotlight was Marty Stuart’s famous guitar - a battle-scarred Fender Telecaster from the 1950s. It was purchased by Stuart from the widow of Clarence White, the Byrds’ original guitarist who died in a tragic car accident in 1973. As the seminal 60s folk-rock band was exploring a more country-influenced sound, White worked with Byrds bandmate Gene Parsons to modify the guitar, creating a pull-string rigged to the strap that allows the B-string to bend a full note, suggesting the distinctive twang of a steel guitar. It is known to guitar nerds as the original "B-bender." You can hear Stuart talk about acquiring it here. And you can hear Gene Parsons talking about making it here. If you want to see Stuart playing the B-bender, this video from an appearance on David Letterman is a good example, and also captures the energy of his show. You can see Stuart operating the mechanism by looking at the spot where his strap connects to the top of the body of the guitar. When he shrugs his left shoulder, you can hear the note bend. I also found an interview with Vaughan about this appearance, in which he remembered that someone in the Letterman band made fun of the group, offering an impromptu "yee haw" cowboy side kick when they appeared for rehearsal. Vaughan said some of his bandmates were bothered by the joke. As the song kicks in, hitting breakneck speed in seconds, it seems to me that Vaughan turns and plays straight to the Letterman band for a moment, as if to say: "How this?" Speaking of the fancy suits, it's impossible to talk about Stuart and his band without talking about their stage clothes. They fully and without irony embrace the flashy country look of the 50s and 60s, when fine-tailoring, sparkling rhinestones and bold colors were the order of the day. They were known as “Nudie Suits,” after Los Angeles tailor Nudie Cohn. And they were favored by everyone from Hank Williams to George Jones to Gram Parsons. Not everyone can pull off the look. But they can. Bottom line: It was a great night of music, and it won't be our last Marty Stuart and the Fabulous Superlatives show. Check out our review of the Night Train to Nashville performances at the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Good luck if you are the city after Paris on a European trip. The deck is stacked. We are now in Dublin, where the answer to the Eiffel Tower is the Millenium Spire - a very tall, pointy, stainless steel spike. But while the beauty of Paris is breathtaking, the beauty of Dublin is deeper. Paris is the city that wants you to know how grand it is. Dublin is the city that wants you to know how grand it is to meet you. This was my seventh visit to Ireland, and I’m biased as a proud Irish American. Six of my eight great grandparents were born here, and I don’t remember a time in my childhood that I didn’t own an Irish sweater, a gift from whatever relative had most recently visited. Truth be told, I generally tell people looking for Ireland travel advice that, as lovely as Dublin is, they don’t need to spend too much time here. A day or two should do it, then it’s off to the country. This time around, however, we only had three days, and were dropping our daughter off at Trinity College. So Dublin it was. After several days of Parisian indifference, I was happy to be among people who seemed genuinely happy to see me. Don’t get me wrong. We had a magical trip to Paris. But when you find yourself among so many friendly people, you remember that Parisian waiter who, upon noticing and acknowledging your “check please” gesture, smiled, took out a cigarette, lit it, and smoked the entire thing before delivering the check. At a distance Dublin is a bustling city with an ample share of tourists and tourist attractions. You’ll want to see the Book of Kells, which shows the story of how Irish monks, literally, preserved civilization during the dark ages. There are all manner of Irish history museums and attractions, if you are so inclined. And there is a very proud literary tradition that lives in plaques that point out various spots that were featured in Ulysses, the James Joyce masterpiece that chronicles a day – June 16, 1904 – in the life of Leopold Bloom. No place I know of holds its writers in as high regard as Dublin. And lest you think it is some sort of tourism marketing ploy aimed at romantic travelers like me, consider my visit to the Hodges Figgis bookstore, a stone’s throw from Trinity College. The amount of space reserved for new Irish fiction is staggering. There are literally hundreds of new novels, produced by a country of about 5 million people, less than the population of metro Chicago. We found a lovely little place called the Little Museum of Dublin, which entertainingly takes visitors from the Vikings to U2 in about an hour. Our tour guide, Amanda, didn’t merely point out the great Patrick Kavanaugh in one of the pictures. She quickly recited the first verse of one of his poems. On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue; I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way, And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day. Many people say they love poetry. Look for the people who can recite it. It is no coincidence that people who love conversation and storytelling would become such great writers. The Irish had their own native Gaelic taken away by English colonizers, and they took revenge by becoming the greatest writers in the English language. Here is where I might try to write poetically about Dublin, and Ireland. But it would just be sentimental fluff. Trust me when I say that it is a happy, friendly place. And people tell good stories. If you want to know what Dublin is, you have to know about the word “craic.” Pronounced “crack,” it is a word that more or less means a particular kind of fun. You can go into one of the big bars on the Temple Bar (or Rush Street in Chicago, or Lower Broadway in Nashville) and find boozy throngs of people singing along to “Country Road” or “Brown Eyed Girl.” This is fun, or can be. But it is not necessarily craic. Craic is laughter and lively conversation, ideally with a large group. Jokes and pints are shared. Stories, perhaps even true stories, are told. There’s a lot of laughter, and maybe a few songs. You make new friends. That is good craic. Craic sometimes enters the realm that the Irish call “mighty,” as was the case several years ago when I was in a pub for a phenomenon known as a “lock in.” This is when the crowd is having so much fun that the owner locks the door at closing time, essentially turning it into a private party. There were about 50 people left in this particular bar, and songs were being called for. Some people had beautiful voices and sang beautiful songs. Others tested the limits of the words “sing” and “voice.” And then there was my Irish friend James. At one point I returned from the men’s room to find him, in a thick Dublin brogue that was lubricated by - oh, let’s just say several - pints of Guinness, passionately fighting his way through an entire unaccompanied version of Johnny Cash’s “Boy Named Sue.” The pub roared its approval. That, my friends, was mighty craic. I’m rambling here, as usual. Trust me. Dublin is a happy place. The Irish are happy people. Visit if you haven’t. Go back if you have.

We dined at Locust a few months ago, and loved every bite. Then I dragged me feet writing a post about it, and wouldn't you know it. This quirky little gem within walking distance of our house is now Food and Wine Magazine’s 2022 Restaurant of the Year. “Great,” my wife said when I told her the news this morning. "We’ll never be able to get a table again.” Given that the restaurant was also named one of the top 50 in the United States by the New York Times a few weeks ago, this is probably true. But we couldn’t feel happier. Locust is the kind of great restaurant that somehow manages to make you feel happy. Located in the heart of the popular 12 South neighborhood, it has a stylish but minimalist interior, an equally minimalist menu, and a kitchen staff that greets everyone with a hearty cheer. It feels like a pop-up. “It's hard to define what exactly the restaurant is, but as of right now, the food mostly has a Japanese bent,” Khushbu Shah wrote for Food and Wine. “And on any given night, there might be a heavy metal soundtrack blasting from the open kitchen, with a few chefs head-banging away as they prepare your next dish. Locust is fully, uncompromisingly, and unapologetically itself—which is exactly what makes it so playful and brilliant.” Although the neighborhood is liberally sprinkled with solid restaurants that are bustling seven nights a week, Locust is only open Friday, Saturday, and Sundays. The brainchild of chef Trevor Moran, formerly of the downtown Nashville stand-out Catbird Seat, as well as Copenhagen’s Noma (google it and you’ll occasionally see the phrase “best restaurant in the world.”) the menu is limited, and constantly changing. “It’s pretty much whatever Trevor is into at the moment,” one of our servers said. There were six items available on the evening we dined, and two of them were appetizers. Many patrons simply order all of the menu, and share. A specialty of the house is steamed dumplings, which come in orders of 10 and are eye-rollingly delicious. We started with a dozen Pacific Gold oysters that didn’t disappoint. A native New Englander who grew up watching oyster boats steam in and out of the harbor near my house, I am partial to the varieties from Long Island Sound and the various ponds and coastlines of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. But these briny California specimens were slightly sweet and tasty, with a deep shape reminiscent of a periwinkle that made it easier to capture the oyster’s delicious liquor. We also tried what the menu describes as a “tuna ham crisp.” There is no ham, just a combination of raw and cured tuna, spread out over a thin cracker. “Don’t eat it with a knife and fork,” our server advised. “You’ll break the cracker. Eat it with your hands.” A word about the servers: There are none. Each dish was delivered by a different person from the kitchen staff, presumably the chef who made it. Each of them politely crouched down to table height to tell us about their dish. It creates the feeling of hanging out at the home of your cool master chef friend, and having them come out to the dining room, drop a plate in front of you, and say: “Try this.” Like all restaurants of this stature, Locust is hardly inexpensive. That being said, we felt it was reasonable. You can certainly spend far more at any of a dozen expense-account eateries in downtown Nashville. It's pricey, but worth it. I don’t presume to be a restaurant reviewer. I love good food, well-prepared. Nothing at Locust was even remotely disappointing. If you want better details of what’s on the menu, here is a lovely write-up. I’ll just say that we’re grateful to have such a delightful treat in our neighborhood. Here’s hoping we can snag a table again in the next year or so.

Outside on the busy sidewalk, groups of loud teenagers wandered past. Italian business people strode from one appointment to the next, or whizzed by on their scooters along with delivery drivers and students. A few tourists paused to study their phone-maps, looking for the Pantheon or the Spanish steps, each a few blocks away. Meanwhile the ancient stone façade and columns of the Church of St. Luigi dei Francesi presided quietly over the various cafes, storefronts, and apartment buildings on the piazza that bears its name. “Let’s go inside,” our walking-tour guide said, pointing to an open door. “There are three Caravaggios here that I want to show you.” Moments later we were standing in a church, marveling at the artist’s pioneering use of natural light, and listening to the backstory of the work. Turns out the paintings were early commissions for the young painter, then fighting for his share of a Renaissance spotlight dominated by Michelangelo. Most of Caravaggio’s paintings are spread among the world’s great museums and private collections. But here we were, wandering into an open-to-the-public church, where three of his works were sitting in the very spot where they’ve been since they were created, 600 years ago. This is Rome in a nutshell – where ancient history and great art mingle with daily bustle of a modern metropolis. Our home for the week was a short walk from the Spanish Steps, which I only knew of from “Dublin Blues,” the great Guy Clark song. Turns out it was built in 1723, after more than 150 years of bickering over the plans. It is a functioning work of art that spreads like a living thing between buildings on the dense urban hillside connecting the Piazza di Spagna with a magnificent church above. At any given moment it is abuzz with a combination of locals chatting or checking their phones, smoking, and making their way up and down, as well as tourists snapping selfies. A few blocks away, via a zig-zag of narrow cobblestone streets lined with cafes and high-fashion boutiques, is the 2,000-year-old Pantheon. It is one of the most important pieces of architecture in the world and, like the Spanish Steps and the aforementioned Caravaggios, lives cheek by jowl with everyday life in Rome. Thousands of people walk to and from work or school every day, passing within inches of the mighty portico, perhaps even ducking under it if there is rain. We shared my wife’s Air Pods and listened to a Rick Steeves audio tour – highly recommended, and free! - of the building, marveling that such engineering and design genius could exist at roughly the same time Jesus was walking the earth. Our home for the week was a neat, one-bedroom apartment overlooking a courtyard that served up a magical moment when we arrived. Our building was right next to a music conservatory, and when we opened the door to the balcony off our bedroom, we were greeted with the sounds of an orchestra practicing. After a long day of Ryanair experience, I slipped into an afternoon nap to the lovely sounds of talented students. Two things stand out when you walk around Rome – age and fashion. The city is thousands of years old and follows a lay-out set down centuries before anything remotely resembling cars. There are some main streets, of course. But it is mostly a labyrinth of narrow cobblestone “vias.” Your stroll down one and think how nice it is to be able to walk without cars. Then a car pulls up quietly behind you and passes within inches of your hips, and you realize you are actually in the middle of a road barely wider than a small car. Then there is fashion. Like Paris, Rome is a spiffy dresser. Even the folks not dressed to the nines – and there are plenty of folks dressed to the nines – exhibit a familiar Italian style. It is not unusual to see an Italian man on a Roman street, looking like a Hollywood actor playing an Italian man on a Roman street – close-fitting suit with perfectly tied tie, fine leather shoes, perfectly offset scarf, hand-rolled cigarette held with two fingers parallel to the lips, brow slightly furrowed and eyes gazing into the middle distance thinking, one assumes, about a beautiful woman. Honestly, what I liked more than anything was listening to the Italians. Some say that French is the most beautiful language. I disagree. Italian speech advances and retreats like a choreographed operatic fight. Every conversation seems urgent, so much so that the hands must be involved. It is musical. I could sit and listen to it all day. Even Italians speaking English are fun to hear. There was Ciara, our Caravaggio-loving guide, stiffening our resolve to cross the busy Italian streets. Apparently the trick is to stare down the oncoming car and start walking. “You must-ah be brave-ah,” she said. More from Rome will follow. Ciao for now!

I didn’t notice until I’d passed her three or four times, looming over the small square near our temporary home base like a guardian angel. She stands a full three stories tall on an otherwise typical Le Marais apartment building. Her wings spread across two balconies, with some sort of branch or flower in one hand. Once I saw her, I looked up every time I passed and smiled, admiring both her beauty and the fact that some real estate developer - or whatever they were called 200-odd years ago - approved this extra expense. But this is Paris, where beauty overwhelms, and every object in the built environment - from buildings to benches to lampposts to water fountains – seems designed to make you smile, or dance. Now I am imagining any of the many fine editors I’ve worked for over the years shaking their heads, or worse. “Paris is beautiful. Is that so?” the great Don Hayner might say, leaning back in his chair. “I wonder if it’s possible to find a less original take?” But if you’ve been here you know. Paris’ beauty jumps up and hugs you around every corner. It’s no wonder that so many people passing you on the street - from the college girl with her flowing bell-bottom capris pants over laceless Doc Martens, to the the old man with his stylish bow tie and beret, to the professional woman and her couture bag and dolce sunglasses - have a little more style than the average urban dweller. Before you jump to the defense of the many beautiful urban spots in the United States and elsewhere, please know that I am aware of them. My father was a sentimental romantic when it came to beautiful, uplifting spaces. He pointed them out to us enough times as children that both my sister and I appreciate them more than most. I lived in Chicago on and off for almost 25 years. It is filled with spaces large and small that lift the spirit. Indeed, many years ago, Chicago’s second Mayor Richard Daley is said to have visited Paris and come back determined to make the “city of the broad shoulders” more visually appealing. Most made fun of him. They pointed out, not incorrectly, that his wrought iron fence requirement added greatly to construction costs, and that that money went into the pockets of Daley-friendly developers. But what of it? We all know that the reason behind so much urban (and suburban) ugliness we’re all required to look at is the whining chorus of middle-aged managers waiving budgets in the air and chanting that “it just doesn’t make financial sense!” No, a large carved angel on the side of a neighborhood apartment building does not make financial sense. Neither does a large iron sculpture with a faucet pouring straight down in the middle – the French idea of a public water fountain. The ones I saw were green and made of iron. Four goddesses stood on a pedestal, holding up some sort of dome. On different occasions I saw people wet their hands and splash water on their face (it was 82 degrees in October!), or reach under and fill a water bottle. Neither does the ornate steel, glass and limestone arches of the Musee d-Orsay, a former train station. But when I walked in and looked up at the massive clock on the arched glass wall, I caught my breath and imagined how wonderful it must have been to arrive there by train for the world's fair almost 150 years ago. Neither does the muscular, steel, erector-set radio tower just off the river. But the perfect grace of it's curving path to the sky has become one of the most enduring symbols of any city. I could go on. But what makes sense about these things is that the inspire feelings of happiness and well-being in those of us lucky enough to walk among them. You are more hopeful when you are surrounded by beautiful things. On the other hand, maybe I’m just feeling especially sentimental. Today is, after all, the 27th anniversary of the day I married the most beautiful woman in the world. Joyeux anniversaire, Mary!

When we look back on this trip, we'll think of Lisbon as a regrouping stop. We’re now 18 days in, and we needed a city to catch our breath, and to get some work done. Odd that we would do this while still walking more than five miles a day in the hilliest of hilly cities. But there you go. It is a beautiful city, and very welcoming. And while Lisbon isn’t Rome or Athens in terms of antiquity, it does seem old, even for a European city. Part of the floor of the hall outside our hotel room is thick glass, displaying the Roman staircase that was unearthed when the building was renovated in 2015. Up the hill from us, the Castelo de Jorge includes ruins from the Iron Age, a couple of centuries BC. As for more recent history, the church where Christopher Columbus got married is just up the street. The famous patterned tile sidewalks, combined with the sharp angles – both up and down and side to side – make walking both an adventure and a pleasure. Only one part of the city, the Baixa district, is flat and laid out in a grid. Which calls to mind the still-talked-about earthquake that happened – checks notes – 267 years ago. In that sense, Lisbon does share something in common with Chicago. Both suffered a devastating event that both destroyed and still seems to define the place. Lisbon’s earthquake of 1755 killed more than 50,000 people, and destroyed large swaths of the city. Lisbon rebuilt itself, this time around grand squares and plazas, and the grid of the Baixa is a reminder. Portugal is one of the poorest countries in Europe, and you can see that in some graffiti and decay when you venture out of the popular neighborhoods. The funicular we rode in the Barrio de Alto (the high neighborhood) was so covered in graffiti that it reminded John of the New York subway system in the 1970s. You can also hear it from the people, who complain about poor financial support for retirees, and long hours and low pay for everyone else. Our cab driver from the airport told us he was retired from the Merchant Marines, and still drove his cab 370 hours per month. That’s 12 hours a day every day. Still, it is experiencing a bit of a tourist boom. “There’s no low season now. Only high and mid,” said Ines Salvador, the manager the Santiago de Alfama, our hotel here. Mary found it, booked it with credit card points, and we’ll definitely be back. It currently has only 19 rooms, with plans to more than double that in the next three years. But a stylish renovation of the 15th century building gives it the feel of a larger luxury hotel. And it is in the heart of the Alfama, Lisbon’s oldest and loveliest neighborhood. We especially enjoyed pre-dinner cocktails in the hotel bar, presided over by Bruno, an artist of a bartender. We're normally not a fan of the artisanal cocktail builders one typically comes across in the states. Too often they seem pretentious – turning a fun exchange into a stern lecture. Bruno brings a little joy to the process, and happily – over the course of our stay – walked us through the many different ways to make everything from a great gin and tonic to some great after-dinner drinks. The hotel wifi was solid, and Mary was able to navigate a few important work calls. They also helped us at the front desk, printing out some travel documents. John wanted to get out on the water, as he always does when water is near, so we took one of Lisbon’s many ferries. We crossed the Tagus river to Cacilhas and it was our first disappointment of the trip. The boat, mostly used by daily commuters, wasn’t particularly clean. And it didn’t allow passengers to ride outside, in the fresh air. We watched the beautiful views of the city through dirty windows. The other disappointment was our own fault, as we made the river crossing too early. The little town of Cacilhas was just waking up, and we were too early for lunch at a restaurant Rick Steeves said he loved. We walked around the town, had a coffee, and headed back to the city. Lisbon lives outside, even in November. Edoardo, our guide-friend in the Algarve, had already told us this. “The home is for the bed,” he had said, meaning people would rather spend their free time outside their home, with other people. The Alfama is home to many very small cafes, most with more tables outside than in. Even the shopkeepers seem to be half inside and half out, often standing in the doorways or sitting outside, stepping in only to tend to a customer. Old women sit in the open doors of their homes, selling shots of Ginjinha, a cherry liquor served in edible chocolate cups for an extra euro. Streets are often bustling until late in the evening, which gives the place a friendly feel. And they observe the late-dinner time of other Southern European countries here. Book a table for 8 p.m. and you’re likely to be one of the first diners in the restaurant. Mary and I both love live music, and were determined to sample Fado, a type of Portuguese folk singing that is famous here. It’s a simple form of music, with one singer accompanied by one or two guitar players. “Live Fado” is offered in many places, but someone told Mary how to spot a good place for it. “If they are playing Fado and people are talking and talking, don’t go in,” he said. “If they are playing Fado and people are shushing people, that is good Fado.” We landed at Bohemia LX restaurant, a short walk from our hotel, and were pleased by the quiet ambience, even as the musicians were on break. Shortly after we placed our order, a woman took the small stage with two musicians, both older gentlemen. One played a traditional acoustic guitar. The other played a “classic” Portuguese guitar, with a smaller, rounded body. Fado - pronounced FAH-dough - is folk music characterized by sadness and melancholy, often about the lives of poor people and fishermen. Like Italian or German opera, you can feel the emotion, even if you don't understand the words. The songs are even more evocative because the Portuguese language sounds vaguely Russian. I can't find a good explanation for why this is, but with a quick internet search, I was pleased to discover that this is a real thing, not just something I imagined. The guttural sounds and melodic cadence suggest a mix of romance and tragedy - a perfect description of a Fado ballad, or a Russian novel.