Place

I’ve always heard Americans describe the food in Rome as “authentic,” though maybe that’s only relative to our three square meals of Little Debbies, reconstituted meat and freeze-dried astronaut food. The things we eat are not authentic food. But abroad, authenticity means anything sourced locally and served by a very small old woman with limited English. If a nonna told me she’d fished anchovies out of the Trevi Fountain and plucked chicory from cracks in the sidewalk, I’d swoon and think: they really know how to do it right in Europe. Authenticity, to me, also means a little discomfort. Bones in your rabbit stew. Lugging a suitcase up a dirt road. Getting pickpocketed.

I was born in Saskatchewan and have no intention of returning. It’s the Siberia of Canada, an area bigger than France – where I now live – with the population of Buffalo, New York. It’s sucked dry by Ottawa. Elon Musk was here, and left. And it has winter temperatures of -40 degrees. Alberta has slightly more going for it: skiing, bears. But Albertans aren’t gruntled, either. The last time I was in Calgary I had lunch at the elite Ranchmen’s Club and the chatter was seditious. The talk was of Wexit – the separation of western Canada from the bloodsucking east. Then there’s Plan B. While it’s possible that western Canada could go it alone – seceding from the dominion and declaring independence – it’s hardly the only option.

Those who have visited Venice in the summertime will have witnessed the masses who descend into the heart of the labyrinthine islands, clogging their historic stone arteries and beautiful atria in a gormless and sclerotic trance. Meandering along the canals can always lead to some duomo or piazza that merits a standstill and an upward gawp. If you’re at all like me, after sweating through those tight streets with other tourists, one day certainly feels like enough. So it went on my recent visit. After popping my head in for as much of the Biennale that was still on display, a Bellini at Harry’s, lunch at Staffa and an inspiring visit to the Fondazione Querini Stampalia, I decided to get in the car and leave.

In the narrow strait between Jura and Scarba, the sea does strange things. Standing waves barrel over phantom surf breaks. Steely waters seethe and swirl, as if stirred by invisible hands. No wonder the gulf’s name, Corryvreckan, means “cauldron of the speckled seas” in Gaelic; this is the world’s third largest whirlpool, classified as “unnavigable” by the Royal Navy. Yet here I am, aboard a thirty-seven-foot rigid inflatable boat (RIB), riding the rapids. Skipper Sandy Campbell cuts the engine so we can try “boat surfing,” the swell dragging us apace past Scarba’s looming quartzite cliffs. Islanders of old dreamt up mystical explanations for this phenomenon.

"Insane, isn’t it?!” Kyle yelled from thirty feet below, leaning back on his snowboard to watch me struggle. I summoned every ounce of strength in my jet-lagged body to prize my legs, still attached to skis, from several feet of fresh snow. Wedged sideways, I pulled myself up by a tree root, alternating between hysterical laughter and acute panic as little progress was made in five minutes. I’d come to Japan for the powder — and I’d sure found it on my first morning in Furano, Hokkaidō. Fighting to stand up, I steeled myself to tackle the impossibly light powder reaching my armpits, on the widest skis I’d ever clipped into. It really did feel different to snow in the US or Europe. This would take some getting used to. “You said you wanted ‘Japow’!

Beneath a stunning Della Robbia Crucifixion a lone candle burns on the floor of the Holy Stigmata Chapel in the sanctuary of La Verna. The immense tranquility belies the astonishing events that occurred in 1224 on this rocky outcrop in central Italy’s Umbrian hills. The chapel marks the spot where, two years before his death, Saint Francis, retreated to fast and pray with two of his brother friars. After some weeks, Francis saw a six-winged Seraphim, apparently crucified, who appeared and imposed the five wounds of Christ’s Passion on his body — in paintings the angel appears to be “lasering” St. Francis, who is often depicted as a sort of Franciscan version of Willem Dafoe getting it at the end of the film Platoon — including the nails protruding. Heady stuff.

We were somewhere around the Palazzo when the drugs began to take hold. Unlike Hunter S. Thompson, though, we were surrounded not by imaginary bats but an amiable crowd of agèd hippies. Our destination was the Las Vegas Sphere, to hear Dead & Company. The venue itself eschews the definite article, but it’s futile. No one says they’re going to Sphere. It’s too much of a destination. It needs the definite article. Security was rather lax, though the price of tickets plus the age of the average attendee greatly lessened the chances of anyone showing up with mayhem on his mind. After going through a metal detector, where we are instructed not to empty our pockets, we headed up the stairs to find our seats.