Travel

“You just missed Chris Hoy. He was here leading cycle rides over the summer,” the Peligoni Club’s receptionist informed me breezily as he lugged my suitcase down the gravel path to my villa. Lively Greek music drifted on the (non-existent) breeze, thick air seeming to press down on us despite the late hour.  I’d come to Zakynthos seeking some solo restoration — and sure, even self-improvement. I hadn’t pictured puffing up a rock-strewn hill behind a six-time Olympic gold-medal-winning medalist, in 90-degree heat. But that’s how they roll, here; this family-run, members-only beach club regularly flies in experts to add star quality to the pared-back, luxurious spaces.

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’!

Pulling up at Marblehead’s Harbor Light Inn, my oldest friend and I wasted no time securing two counter seats at the Tavern tucked inside. A Christmas tree twinkled incongruously as we planned the hallowed pilgrimage most travelers reserve for spooky season: the next day we’d make the twenty-minute drive to Salem, the scene of the infamous witch trials of 1692. Peeling ourselves away from this glorious little seaside B&B, replete with canopy beds and resplendent fireplaces, would be harder than expected. “Excuse the smell! We’ve been baking all day,” said general manager Carolyn as we caught a waft of banana bread.

“Wow.” My younger brother stopped still on the runway as we disembarked our plane at Innsbruck. In every direction, snow-capped mountains shot up to the sky. I found myself rubbing my eyes like a cartoon character, while he picked his jaw up off the floor. Delivering us across the border to Brunico, our cab driver felt moved to score the scene. “All this untz, untz, untz music, I can’t do! Phil Collins OK?” The Alps looming majestically on both sides of the road, “In The Air Tonight” blasting comically loud, the journey fast became a core family memory. It felt stupendous, exciting; like your first time seeing Manhattan sparkle in the distance from JFK. “This is the Brenner Pass... and now, Italy. Welcome in Italy!

Asked how best to get to know new cultures, travel luminary Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” This series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, wherever I’ve washed up. Fast-paced, cacophonous, always surprising; if Mumbai is the hub of India’s creative scene, Soho House Mumbai is the home of its creative set. The eleven-story townhouse stands out in studiously hip Juhu, flanked by contemporary galleries, boutiques, fine-dining spots and a stretch of beach (though the water’s not for swimming).  Inside I was fascinated by 200 pieces of art, 85 percent of which is by artists based in India, or of Indian descent.

In the seminal Casablanca, there is a classic moment when the Humphrey Bogart character is asked how he ended up there. Bogie, doing laconic and world-weary as only he could, replies, “My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters.” When Claude Rains’s iconic Captain Renault purrs, “Waters? What waters? We’re in the desert!” Bogart’s response is simple. “I was misinformed.” This exchange occurred to me when I recently visited Bordeaux, a city with awe-inspiringly beautiful architecture, some of France’s most stylish places to shop and eat, situated teasingly close to the beaches of the Atlantic coast. Yet if you attempted to tell anyone that you’d come to Bordeaux for history, couture or coastline, you’d get the Bordeaux version of “What waters?