Budapest is the perfect introduction to Eastern Europe. It is cosmopolitan enough to feel familiar, with grand civic buildings – its parliament building is even modeled on London’s – but with enough of its own identity to offer a starting point for an Eastern European novice, like me.

I struck lucky when booking a girls’ trip and managed to get a great deal on rooms in the Boscolo New York Palace Hotel, which certainly looks like a palace. Situated on Erzsébet körút, a main street on the Pest side of the city, it’s also well-located for getting to the main sights of the city, with the river a 10-minute walk away.

We’re more used to cheap hotels than 5-star luxury – a fact we probably failed to hide as we walked in with our jaws hitting the floor. The hotel is home to the New York Café, the aforementioned most beautiful café in the world, or – as they say in Hungarian – a világ legszebb kávéháza.

On the first day of our trip, we simply peered into the café, beguiled by the shimmering lights and the opulent décor, but our eagerness to explore the city took over. However, on the second day, we ensconced ourselves at a table and gazed in wonder at our surroundings. There were high ceilings painted with classical style frescoes and decorative pillars adorned with gold. Sparkling chandeliers cast kaleidoscopes of light through the multi-leveled salon and a pianist at a handsome grand piano was playing gentle tunes to accompany the quiet chatter of the customers.

We tried at first to take pictures surreptitiously, not wishing to look too much like crazy tourists, but in the end we gave up and just snapped away. Pictures taken, we turned our attention to the menu.

The list of coffees and cakes reads like something dreamt up in a more sophisticated and adult version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory; every coffee and dessert fantasy you’ve ever had is there. From the fierce chili coffee, which comes with a whole red chili atop a generous swirl of whipped cream, to the indulgent Moroccan coffee, lightly spiced and rich with cream, everything is impossibly decadent. The desserts, meanwhile, combine the best of French patisserie with traditional Hungarian ingredients, such as walnut mousse and cherries.

Even the architecture of the cafe, which at first just seems splendidly grand, echoes the ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’ feeling of the menu: While it does indeed have that Belle Époque style reminiscent of the great Parisian salons, it also has something whimsical about it which sets it apart. Rather than being classically straight the pillars and balconies twist almost fluidly, whilst the light and airy eggshell color scheme makes it feel almost cloud-like.

The café was originally designed by the architect Alajos Hauszmann and opened in 1894. Though the main building was used for an insurance company, the beautiful café quickly attracted the literary and artistic minds of fin-de-siècle Budapest. Though it is a high-end café now, stories abound that struggling writers in those days had access to pens, paper and cheap coffee, and could sit there all day, drawing inspiration from the frescoes and architecture.

However, like most of the beautiful buildings of Budapest, it fell into ruin following the Second World War and the rise of Communism. It is only relatively recently, in 2001, that the café was carefully restored to its former glory and opened once again, as part of the New York Palace Hotel.

Nowadays it is full of tourists, rather than writers, but the architecture and art of this café cannot fail to inspire any visitor. I would love to go back in time and experience it in its heyday, but a coffee there nowadays is still a pretty special experience. Just being there, it is hard not to soak up the stories of a place which has gone through some of the most troubled and turbulent events in Europe’s history, but has managed to re-establish itself as the world’s most beautiful café.

Editor’s note: I visited Budapest as well back in December on a media trip sponsored by Eurail Travel. While we were in town, we stayed at a hotel just a block away from the New York City Cafe´, the Hotel Nemzeti, newly opened and modern in a grand old building with a pastry story or two of its own. I’ll be sure to share one of these stories soon! For those thinking about visiting Budapest or other spots in Eastern Europe, train travel is among the best ways to do so.

All photos property of and by Katy Stewart ©

Hearing “Mary Poppins” has always made me think of England, not Australia, but that all changed when I stumbled across the Mary Poppins House in Allora, Queensland, the tiny Australian country town where I live.

Allora has a population of only 900, yet it boasts as one of its former residents Helen Lyndon Goff, known as P.L. Travers, the author of the Mary Poppins stories.  

The Mary Poppins house was constructed in 1879 as bank manager’s residence for the Australian Joint Bank. In 1905, Helen’s father, Travers Goff, took residency as bank manager with his wife, Margaret, and three daughters, Helen, Biddy, and Moya. It is a beautiful house to this day, thanks to the faithful restoration of current owners, Les and Lorraine Struthers. Wide, shady verandas, rose bushes by the white picket fence, and pretty little gardens surrounding a gazebo indeed look like something from a story book.

The Goff family lived there from 1905 to 1907. According to Helen’s biographer, Valerie Lawson, it was a difficult time for the family. Travers Goff was a shiftless alcoholic, and in 1907 he died suddenly of influenza and was buried in the Allora cemetery. Margaret and her daughters moved the next day, dependent from that moment on the generosity of a rich elderly aunt who cared more for dogs than people.

The shock was too much for Margaret and when Helen was 11, she ran out into a storm declaring that she was going to drown herself in the creek behind the house. Helen gathered her terrified sisters around her and distracted them with imaginary stories of a magical white horse that could fly without wings and swim without fins. The stories kept them enthralled until their mother returned, drenched but unharmed.

These events formed the basis for many characters in the Mary Poppins stories. Mr. Banks was an idealist representation of Helen’s own father, perhaps the father she wished she had. Mary Poppins’ parrot-headed umbrella was the exact model of one used by a governess of Helen’s. The magical white horse evolved into Mary Poppins herself, arriving in the lives of the Banks children just when they needed her most.

I didn’t know any of these stories when I first saw the Mary Poppins House in Allora. Didn’t know of Helen’s brief foray into acting before becoming a journalist, changing her name to P.L. Travers, and moving to London. I had no inkling of the severe illness she faced, the unusual relationships she forged, her questionable adoption of one twin while leaving the other behind, and the fierce antagonism she bore Walt Disney for his portrayal of her books on the big screen.

I was disappointed at first. I wanted a happy story, one that reflected the loving family she so obviously craved in her stories. But now I’m glad to know the real story behind Mary Poppins. PL Travers may not be the “practically perfect” Julie Andrews of my imagination, yet I can’t help but admire her pluck. I’m inspired by the feisty determination of a little Australian girl to turn her childhood traumas into stories that have enchanted millions of readers around the world.

Editor’s note: The charming Victorian Era villages of Allora is only a two hour drive from Brisbane, but if you’d like to stay for the night, there’s one bed and breakfast in town.

All photos property of and by Krista Bjorn ©

You can try this local delight in most restaurants, but some of the best Laksa’s are those that are served up at the street stalls. Laksa really appeals to the senses, as the combination of Chinese and Malay tastes produce a heavenly aroma. It is typically served with chicken or fish balls, prawns and tofu. Laksa is an iconic street food dish served throughout Singapore.

There are lots of different types of Laksa, but the main two variations are the curry Laksa which is made with coconut milk and the Asam Laksa which has a sour taste and contains tamarin. The noodles used for a Laksa dish are usually very thick and made from rice, although some countries use slightly different variations.

Singapore has an ‘eat out’ culture. The locals don’t really spend much time in the kitchen and tend to grab some food after work at common eating areas called ‘hawker centres’ or the more recent developments of food courts in most of the huge shopping centres in the city state.

There are about 50 hawker centres in Singapore. Here visitors can enjoy lots of dishes that are typical to Singapore, such as Laksa, chicken rice and satay dishes.

Dishes here are also influenced by the cultures that reside in Singapore such as Chinese, Indian and Malay. If you want to taste a fantastic Laksa then head to Roxy Laksa at the East Coast Food centre (hawker side). It’s the perfect end to a cycle on the east coast and is best washed down with fresh young coconut.

There are lots of different ways to make a Laksa at home and many optional ingredients. Here are the basics you need to make the basic dish.

Basic Recipe for Aromatic Singapore Curry Laksa

Ingredients

• Laksa noodles
• Prawns
• 2 stalks of lemon grass
• Ginger
• 10 shallots
• Chopped garlic, season to taste.
• Chopped chillies, season to taste.
• Dried shrimp
• 2 tablespoons of curry powder
• 1 tablespoon of coriander
• 2 tablespoons of oil
• Chicken stock
• 2 cans of coconut milk
• Fried tofu squares
• Bean sprouts
• 2 hard-boiled eggs, cut in half
• 2 Limes

To make the Laksa blend the spices until they create a fragrant aroma. Add hot water and stir in coconut milk and chicken stock on a low heat, simmer for 10 minutes. Then add the final ingredients, bean sprouts, prawns, shrimp and chicken.

Photo credit: kodomut 

About the Author: Ryan Gibson is the resident blogger at AsiaRooms. When he is not working he spends his time travelling the globe, drawing on his travel experiences and passion for travel to spread the good word. Ryan is also a social monkey and can be found lounging around on Twitter & Google+ and loves to interact with other travel bloggers.

No. I refused to title this article something inane like “Find a Bathing Suit for your Body Type,” with the usual rundown of apples, pears and celery sticks. Okay, so I made up the “celery stick” body type, but why not? The practice of comparing women’s body types to fresh produce has always been a little ridiculous.

Just so you know what you are getting into, I will not be using other familiar swimsuit buying vocabulary here. There will be no use of terms such as “trouble-spots” and “camouflage,” as these sound more like war room than dressing room talk to me.

I am assuming here that you, like most of us women, rarely have felt particularly “bikini ready,” that state of readiness that has eluded most of the female population since they were 17 years old. Nor are you interested in spending your summer relegated to a chaise lounge, no matter how chic this year’s tunic selection, pretending that you don’t really want to be ruining your fresh highlights in salt and chlorine, jumping waves or playing Marco Polo. I know I don’t.  At any age, going to the beach should be fun.

Protecting your hair from summer related damage is another story, but here I will attempt to give you some tips for buying a bathing suit that will both look good and respectable so that you can have fun in while on your well deserved summer vacation.

1. When trying on suits, take lots of styles in two or three sizes into the dressing room with you. This will help you avoid having to beckon the sales person to fetch you things, which for many reasons is undesirable. One of the best known brands of spandex is Lycra and you will find it to be the material of choice in many swimsuits. On a side note, I’m pretty sure Spandex was invented by the same dude who invented five inch heels.Yes, Lycra sucks it all in, but really, unless you are a modern day Scarlett O’Hara and have devices and people standing ready to help you into your suit, do yourself this favor in effort to avoid passing out in the middle of Dillards and take several sizes of each style in the dressing room as well. Remember you are looking for a suit that fits you, not for you, by means unnatural and sweat inducing, to fit into the suit.

2. Pick styles in your best colors, the ones that make you happy. Solid colors are fine, but don’t shy away from patterns, such as florals and polka dots, especially since there are many tasteful, small repeat patterns this season to choose from. If black is your favorite color and makes you happy – fine   – but as an alternative go a little nuts and consider a darker shade of a favorite color, such as a jewel toned purple, blue or green. My favorite jewel tone this season is deep emerald green. Retro styles featuring a little more coverage than your standard postage stamp sized bikini are popular right now, making this season’s selections both stylish and and more modest. On this note, recently I came across these pictures of beachwear from days gone by. Truth be told part of me yearns for the return of the days of the “swimming costume.”

3, As much as I know you want to run into a department store and grab a one piece and high tail your way out of there, consider going the swimsuit separates route this year, mixing and matching your way to swimsuit ready bliss. Unless you are a perfectly proportioned genetic rarity that has a standard, mannequin-like figure, separates may be the best way to enhance your favorite figure features, while leaving spots that you aren’t so crazy about covered. Additionally separates are a great way to experiment with a new color or pattern.

4.  When making your final selection, ask yourself these three questions: Does it fit me now? Is it comfortable? Am I comfortable walking around in it without a cover up?

Some final notes: Remember you are not produce meant to be sorted into different bins and sold at market and that buying a bathing suit doesn’t have to feel like warfare. Remember that you a beautiful. Now, get over yourself and go buy a bathing suit.

Today’s article was made possible by Land’s End UK.

(Part one can be found here)

Out the back of a little house in Raglan West bathing suits dangled from a clothes line and dripping wetsuits hung over a fence haphazardly, which made the neighbor angry. Paddleboards, surfboards, kayaks and bikes were scattered around a sloping lawn. The terraced backyard led steeply down to the water where a grand Pohutukawa tree stood, and from where, on days she didn’t feel like driving, my host Jordan would kayak from her backyard into town for groceries.

The ‘bach’—a small New Zealand holiday home popular in beach towns— was the center point of my ten-day-stay in Raglan. It was where Jordan, Christian, and their roommate Lauren lived. Years ago it had been sectioned off from a larger house on property Christian’s family owned halfway between the coast and the main town. The bach had a bedroom (formerly the garage) and bath, a section of hallway converted to a tiny galley-style kitchen, and a living room that doubled as a second bedroom. The house was meant to sleep one or two. We found that, with a little improvising, seven bodies fit comfortably enough. The long-term guests included another girl visiting from the States, an English couple who parked their campervan in the driveway, and me.

Spending a summer in Raglan is remembering what it’s like to be a little kid again.

I fell into the schedule of the house pretty quickly. In the mornings all seven of us sat around the living room or on the back deck with our coffee and breakfasts, discussing plans for the day. Eventually we’d load the campervan with as many surfboards as we could fit and head down to the beach. The unlucky extra person had to lay down flat in the bed of the van and draw the curtains. Most of us were beginner surfers and spent lots of time getting battered by the waves. After a couple hours we’d emerge, dog-tired and happy. There’s that old cliché that the best surfer in the water is the one having the most fun.

One day the four of us girls drove the fifteen minutes out of town to Bridal Veil Falls. A walk through dense native bush along the Pakoka River brings you to the top of the stunning 180-foot falls. Below is an amphitheatre-like pool reached by descending 261 steps cut into the earth, which we sprinted up and down just for fun. From the top vantage point, I watched as mist lifted up from the pool below and disappeared into the forest of ferns and palm trees. Beyond the falls were the endless rolling hills that dominate so much of the North Island. It was a landscape I’d grown to know well.

Spending a summer in Raglan is remembering what it’s like to be a little kid again. You avoid indoors as much as possible, dinner is served late because you never want to stop playing, and you create all kinds of makeshift adventures with your friends. There were daily trips to the small supermarket, where Christian worked part-time and we liked to loiter around talking to the other employees. Jordan was starting work at a fish market on the wharf where the day’s catch was unloaded straight from the boats outside. On opening day we visited her and sat at long picnic tables next to the harbor eating the freshest fish and chips. Another afternoon we all went down to Manu Bay, the closest of Raglan’s three main point breaks, with picnic lunches and our boards. The parking lot was filled with vans and cars and anyone not in the water was enjoying watching those who were. A young dad nearby taught his toddler daughter how to skateboard as she shrieked with excitement.

This was the lifestyle of the lazy summer town. No one hurried anywhere. There were no deadlines or stress of work, at least not for me. Raglan was the first real chance I was getting to sit quietly and look back on what had been a dizzying year of new experiences. I figured if I’m looking for reflection, it might as well be on a beach, or sitting on a board in the ocean, or while sharing a beer with friends at a bonfire.

The end of November was fast approaching, and while Southern Hemisphere temperatures were rising with the coming summer, on the other side of the world it was almost Thanksgiving. It’s hard not to feel that pang of homesickness around the holidays when living abroad. The four Americans in the bach were eager to bring a little Yankee tradition to the shores of New Zealand, and no one else argued with a holiday built around eating enormous amounts of food.

We set up tables in the backyard by the water and did our best to replicate our favorite dishes in that miniature kitchen. Family and neighbors came, each bringing their own contribution. In all there were twelve of us gathered around the outside spread representing three different continents. Jordan had filled mason jars with black sand and shells from the local beach and tied cards around each, on which people could write what they were thankful for. There couldn’t have been enough blank spaces to account for how grateful everyone felt. When the sky turned dark we lit a fire and celebrated well into the night. In a few weeks, I’d be returning home to the people I’d missed so much over the past year. But on one of my last nights in Raglan, sitting around a table with a group of friends I’d known only a short time, home didn’t feel that far away.

Photo credits: Featured and 3rd photo by Jordan Newberry, all others by the author.

When the bus first drove me into Raglan, I forgot to get off. Or rather I hadn’t thought the short string of shops we had just passed amounted to the entire business center of the famed North Island surf village. After a year of living in New Zealand, a country built on a string of one-horse towns, this shouldn’t have surprised me. But the Number 23 bus swung back towards the hilly neighborhoods, and there I was still on it.

By this time I’d spent 12 hours of my day on or waiting for public transport, traveling from the Bay of Islands in the Far North, through Auckland, down to the city of Hamilton. After missing my first connection from Hamilton to Raglan and waiting another two hours, I finally boarded the last bus of the day, shoved my suitcase and backpack onto the racks and road the hour out to the coast.

The last month and a half had been a nonstop zigzag across New Zealand’s North and South Islands at the tail end of my year working holiday. The road, with all of its ups and downs, was finally beginning to wear on me. The day before I set out for Raglan, I drove a rental up to Cape Reinga at the very tip of the North Island, where I left the boy I loved as he began a six-month hike down the length of the country. I was flying home to the States in just a few weeks and didn’t know when—or if—I’d see him again. When that bus pulled back through Raglan’s center a second time, I climbed down onto the sidewalk of the sleepy beach town with the weight of a heavy heart and a year’s worth of luggage.

I had come to visit friends, a couple I’d worked with in Queenstown that winter, for just three days. But Raglan has a way of keeping you, and three days would turn into ten. Jordan met me at the bus with a big hug and threw my bags into the back of Christian’s Toyota Corona. The mid-November night was warm and we drove with windows down past the turquoise harbor. You could drink in the coastal air and feel instantly calm.

Raglan sits at the meeting point of fingerlike Whaingaroa Harbour and the Tasman Sea on the North Island’s West Coast. It’s accessed almost solely via the grittier city of Hamilton to the east. Surf and yoga retreats, organic gardens, artist markets and activists all thrive here. The area was made famous for its left-hand surf break, and for decades world-class surfers have come to ride the waves at Indicators, Whale Bay and Manu Bay. Still, the town remains a community of less than four thousand.

I imagine Raglan looks today like how many American beach towns must have looked in the seventies. Transport of choice is a beat-up campervan, which serves as home, storage unit and ride to the nearest surf break. If you happen to stand on the roadside with a thumb out there will almost always be a ride. Many of the businesses in town open late and close early. Nine-to-five is not a widely celebrated concept. In the afternoons clusters of barefoot school kids hop off the bus and walk home along the bleached sidewalks and gravel roads.

One day we were driving through town and were halted by two passing cars that had stopped in the middle of the road. I watched as the woman driving one jumped out, shoeless, lifted a small child out of the backseat, and ran around to deposit the passenger in the other woman’s car. The first woman waved a quick thank you to her friend for taking the load and both were on their way again.

It doesn’t take long to feel like you’re a part of Raglan. My hosts had just moved here, and I watched as they started conversations with strangers on the street, the owners of the local surf shop, one of the artists in a funky co-op boutique in town. There were invitations to barbeques at a friend of a friend’s house we’d just met. One night we went along to an event at the wharf, an open mic happy hour protesting seabed mining (when the bar ran out of drinks and the crowd grew too large for the studio space we made a quick exit.)

I observed the general easygoingness that seemed to settle over the whole of Raglan and knew this was the place to find the R&R I’d been craving. It’s a town that envelops you into its fold the moment you arrive. Maybe there’s a clan of born and bred Raglaners who take issue with the passing travelers and the tourists—I’d heard a few comments of, “Oh, that’s the true locals bar down there”—but if there was I didn’t meet them during my stay. In front of me was a wide open window of time and a hopeful feeling that when it was time to leave, it’d be as a reenergized, happy traveler once more.

Part 2 can be found here.

Photo credits: All photos by the author except numbers 2 and 3, by Jordan Newberry.

The picturesque harbor in Collioure.

Southern France is more than the congested promenades of Nice and the high-fashion coastal towns of the Riviera. The Languedoc-Roussillon region, which spans the Mediterranean coast from Provence to Spain, is a relaxed and affordable alternative to Provence. What it lacks in name recognition it makes up for in sandy beaches that surpass those of the Riviera in beauty and accessibility, in my opinion.

The striking landscape—the snow-topped heights of the Pyrénées Mountains, the dry terrain that supports vineyards and olive groves, and the low, gentle incoming waves of the sea—invites adventurers and leisure-seekers alike. Shaped by its historical role as a crossroads of civilizations, from Roman to Catalan, Languedoc-Roussillon remains a cultural haven that exemplifies the Mediterranean way of life.

Roman Heritage

La Maison Carre in Nimes

The ancient Roman thoroughfare, Via Domitia, cuts through Languedoc-Roussillon connecting ruins of the former empire, the most impressive of which lie in and around the city of Nîmes. Nîmes arena is the best-preserved Roman ampitheater in the world. Far from being abandoned, it still regularly hosts rock concerts and events such as reenactments of gladiator battles. La Maison Carré is one of the most intact temples of the Emperor cult and Le Tour Magne one of the tallest look-out towers.

A short bus ride outside Nîmes, stretching across a steep river valley, is the most awe-inspiring ancient aqueduct still in existence: Le Pont du Gard. Thanks to a museum, hiking trails and nearby kayak rentals, this scenic park is a wonderful place to spend an afternoon.

Medieval Influence

Fortresses still grace plateaus where a Protestant sect once fought to maintain independence from crusading French kings. Carcassonne’s castle is by far the largest and most picture-perfect. Several rings of fortifying walls contain a beautiful cathedral, jousting-and torture-themed exhibits, as well as many shops and cafés (to avoid the crowds, visit in the spring or fall). The Franks weren’t the only ones with claims on the region. The kingdom of Catalonia reached as far north as the now-French city of Perpignan during the Middle Ages, and this heritage shows today through Spanish-style bullfighting festivals. Enjoy some sangria at the biannual Feria de Nîmes; with nearly a million visitors, it’s one of France’s largest festivals.

Modern Culture

The capital city of Languedoc-Roussillon, Montpellier, overflows with youthful vitality. Shoppers weave through the narrow winding streets of the pedestrian-only downtown, serenaded by street musicians. Espresso sippers people-watch in the grand plaza Place de la Comédie, and students cheer their favorite footballers at the vibrant bar scene.

Collioure harbor at night

Beyond Montpellier are many beach resort towns along the coast that welcome summer by opening their boat rentals, ice cream stands, and discos. Continue traveling south, and the seaside towns become more and more colorful. Collioure may be the brightest and most charming of all. It inspired Fauvist artists like Matisse and Derain; reproductions of their masterpieces are posted around the harbor so art lovers can compare them to the real scenes on which they were based. Just a few miles away nearing the Spanish border, amazing hiking and skiing trails cut through the high Pyrénées altitudes. Its ski resorts provide an inexpensive alternative to the glitzy chalets of the Alps.

Transportation in Languedoc-Roussillon

High-speed trains connect to Montpellier from Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris in less than four hours. Use the efficient French railway system to reach cities like Nîmes, Carcassonne and Perpignan and regional coach buses for more remote communities. To visit vineyards and châteaux, or simply to soak in spectacular views of the sun-scorched countryside, consider renting a Peugeot (no international license required).

All photos by the author except for Collioure at night, which is from Wikimedia Commons.

The Lost Witch makes The Bronx the New Black!

In 1997 I packed up my three year old and trekked to the Bronx to attend graduate school. I went alone. I didn’t know anyone. And I was terrified. Because I was a graduate student with a child, there weren’t any on campus housing facilities for me, so I rented an apartment across Fordham Road and about a two blocks away from the center of what I found out, quickly, was the quintessence of Italian American cuisine, culture, and community.

Here are a few highlights of must visit places if you are making a trip. Don’t forget, this area of the Bronx is within walking distance of The Bronx Zoo and The Botanical Gardens, making it easy to take a walk into another world, another time. Be prepared for magic.

The first place I want to highlight is The Indoor Market. Establishied in 1940 by then Mayor Laguardia it is a thriving market with all sorts of produce, food vendors, meat sellers, cheese sellers, and everything. You can eat there, shop there, or just stand in the middle of the beautiful, colorful chaos and smell the air. Culture Saturation. That’s what it is.

When Rosy (my daughter) and I had been in the Bronx for about a week, we’d spent so much time in Arthur Avenue’s indoor market that when I strolled her in, the vendors would start yelling “RosaMaria! Bella!” and then give her free things. They were so kind to her. And to me. I felt at home. Also, there was this handsome, handsome man who sold cheese and I had an enormous crush on him. He couldn’t speak English but he always brought me to the front of the line!  For a complete tour of the indoor market, visit www.arthuravenue.com. Two other well known places in the Bronx’s Little Italy, located right on Arthur Avenue include Dominick’s Restaurant, Enzo’s and Tino’s Delicatessen.

But there is one restaurant that I went to regularly. Tucked on the opposite side, on the lovely Crescent Avenue, there is a restaurant called Roberto’s. I went there every Friday with Rosy. We called them “Fancy Friday’s” and when the weather was nice we’d sit outside. The owners and managers of this amazing place got to know us well, to the point where I didn’t even have to order!

Luscious fresh salads full of arugula and chicory and all the good Italian greens would arrive at our table. They’d bring grilled chicken unlike any I’d ever tasted. And the pasta? Let’s just say, it’s all in the sauce. I grew up eating Italian American food cooked by my Gram. And I never thought I’d be able to have anything that even resembled what she created in her magical kitchen. But at Roberto’s, and in Little Italy in general, I was home. I will be forever grateful for that.

And also? The time spent there turned into the inspiration for my novel, The Witch of Little Italy.  I hope you get to tour this wonderful part of Italian American History and Tradition.

(And thank you to everyone who made me feel a little less lost when I was there…. maybe you remember me? Or at least… RosAMaria!)

Photo courtesy of Mike’s Deli The Original Arthur Avenue Italian Deli

Where’d you go, Bernadette? is the entertaining and captivating story of Bernadette Fox, a mother, wife, and former architect who mysteriously disappears. In order to find her mother, Bernadette’s daughter Bee must piece together a series of events and clues. First let me start by saying this book was a breath of fresh air when compared to today’s current fiction landscape. Maria Semple’s writing style immediately captures the reader’s attention through vivid descriptive accounts. I really enjoyed how Maria was able to effectively tell Bernadette’s story through the use of different character viewpoints, first person, and as well as email correspondence. By utilizing a variety of narrative devices Maria creates a story full of humor, excitement, and intrigue.

The story starts off with Bernadette in the midst of planning a trip to Antarctica with her husband Elgin Branch and daughter Bee. While the novel’s plot takes the reader on an adventure spanning three continents the majority of the novel’s plot takes place in Seattle Washington where the Fox’s live in a distinctly unique home. While Bernadette is an accomplished architect turned housewife, her husband is a highly regarded tech expert who works at Microsoft. What I enjoyed most about this book was the breadth and depth of the story’s characters. Maria omits no small details in describing each character in great length while seamlessly tying the whole story together. Although some readers may find the character of Bernadette to be a bit unconventional (and at times far fetched), I found she provided the most levity to the story while providing the most comic relief.

I couldn’t put this book down which is why I highly recommend it. It’s no surprise that Maria has written for notable comedic shows such as Arrested Development as the story is smart, funny, and quick witted. While the narrative is descriptive the general tone of the story allows itself to be a great beach or summer read. Happy Reading!

Often described as a miniature Versaillies, the 18th century Palazzo Parisio was once home to a Grand Master of the Knights of St. John. It was purchased from the Parisio family in the 19th century by Marquis Giuseppe Scicluna and has been in the family ever since. The Marquis was Malta’s foremost philanthropist and is responsible for the enrichment of the palazzo, transforming it from a grand house into an opulent country home for his noble family.

Although its facade is simple, the interior of the Palazzo Parisio is a study in flamboyant exuberance, a jaw-dropping exhibit of eminent craftsmanship. It has been painstakingly restored to the exact designs of the Marquis Scicluna and visitors can view marble staircases, mirrored walls, fine frescoes, trompe l’oeil, delicate dishes, rare paintings, and lavish amounts of gilding.

I highly recommend taking the Audio guided tour of the Palazzo Parisio. It turns this beautiful building into a stage for centuries of Maltese history. Private tour guides are also available, but you must call ahead to book one.

The Maltese palace provides a grand entry to its magnificent walled gardens, the only privately-owned gardens open to the public in Malta. They are exquisitely beautiful, a mixture of Italian design and Mediterranean scents and colors. I adored the lavish festoons of brilliant bougainvillea tumbling over stone walls and providing blissful shady relief from the searing Maltese summer

The gardens are classically Baroque in style and feature vivid blooms such as jacaranda, oleander, cinerarias, freesias, agapanthus, and over 65 species of hibiscus. It is a place designed for meditative strolls along wide pathways or pleasant meanderings along trails that twist through the Orangery and lead to the fern filled grotto.

The Marquis’ granddaughter, the Noble Mrs. Christiane Ramsay Scicluna, Baroness of Tabria, carries on his legacy through her personal management of the gardens.

Restoration and conservation are also close to her heart, and she works closely with her daughter, Justine Pergola, to ensure the Palazzo Parisio thrives for generations to come. They receive no subsidies or grants, and the palace and gardens are maintained solely through revenue generated by tours, events such as weddings and parties, the Luna Lounge, and two of Malta’s top restaurants, Caffé Luna and Luna di Sera. Every time we asked locals where to eat, they directed us to one of these two restaurants.

If you go:

The Palazzo Parisio Palace and Gardens are open daily throughout the year (except New Year’s Day) from 9 a.m. until 6 p.m. Audio Guided tours of the Palace are available on a daily basis. You can collect your handheld and map of the grounds at the front desk with last admissions at 5:30pm from Monday to Sunday. Tickets are €12.00 for adults (this includes a €2.00 voucher to spend at either Caffe Luna or La Boutique), €7.00 for students over 16 years, €5.00 for children between 5-15 years, and free for children under 5.