Amy Rose Everett

Setting an early alarm while on vacation never comes easily to me, but making time to wander Babylonstoren’s fruit and vegetable garden before the day’s searing heat took hold was no problem. One of the oldest Cape Dutch farms, set at the foot of Simonsberg in Cape Town’s Franschhoek wine valley, it’s a sprawling, fantastical, technicolor utopia — positively Eden-like, with a lot more than apples to tempt you. Scarecrows made from terracotta plant pots wave from fields teeming with 300 edible crops, fat pomegranates growing alongside tangy tamarillos, willow trees swaying in the breeze.

World-class golf, more than 300 days of sunshine a year, flavorsome local seafood, excellent wines and more than 1,000 miles of Atlantic Ocean coastline. There are countless reasons to add Portugal to your bucket list, not least that United Airlines has announced direct flights from New York to Faro, starting in 2025. Me, I might have been living in Lisbon on and off for four years, but I’m continually surprised by new discoveries, from quirky bookstore openings in central Lisbon (Salted books, I love you) to secluded coves or gnarly rock formations in the Algarve’s emblematic places such as Praia do Marinha.

Often asked about my favorite places to go, and moreover, favorite places to eat, I find myself talking about Helsinki. Younger and more innovative than trend-driven neighbors Copenhagen and Stockholm, Helsinki’s established and rising culinary stars are making a special kind of magic. It’s something to do with marrying influences from both East and West, and certainly reflective of its natural proximity to both sea and forest. There’s a fresh and hyper-local feel to modern menus in the capital, evocative of the country’s ancient foraging culture and reverence for nature; but there’s far more to it than picking mushrooms and berries. So many natural wine dens, bistros and bakeries are saved in my Instagram, it’s overwhelming.

“Welcome to your thirties,” my friend Rich roared, throwing open the balcony door leading onto our hotel room’s private loggia. The sound of gushing water filled the room as I flopped, exhausted, onto the bed. The Ziller River rushed through the valley below, fast. Verdant hills stretched upwards to create a preposterously bucolic scene, practically begging for your best Julie Andrews impression, arms outstretched. I laid there, and took it in through the window. I pretended I didn’t mind that I was missing the party, Snowbombing Festival raging on in Mayrhofen town. The “Snolympics?” Didn’t sound like much fun. Pond skimming on skis, surely soggy and impractical.

I’ll fight you to the death on this one: Colorado’s dining scene is hotter than a habanero.  A land-locked state within spitting distance of the culinary vacuum that is the Midwest (sorry, Chicago) might not spring to mind for its food scene. But nods from the Michelin guide prove the Mile High City and wider Colorado have a story to tell, minted in September 2023. I hopped in the Subaru and sampled a smattering of them, from Denver’s farm-to-table outposts, to whimsical epicurean adventures in Aspen, via stylish Italian brunches in Boulder. Denver Glo Noodle House 4450 W 38th Ave, Denver, CO 80212 As a tourist, you’ve got to hit Denver Biscuit Company for brunch, once.

Brexit, the gift that keeps on giving: from June 14, 2024 to January 2025, a reduced Eurostar service will run between London and Amsterdam. Why? Part-closure of Amsterdam Centraal leaves no space for the extra bureaucracy now necessary. Passengers returning to London will change at Brussels to go through security and passport checks, adding up to almost two hours of extra journey time. Global travel booking platforms such as OMIO have reported a surge in train travel in recent years. Cheaper prices (compared to flying) and environmental concerns are cited as the main drivers. But Eurostar’s capped passenger numbers and indirect routes will surely increase air travel in 2024, literally flying in the face of Dutch sustainability policies.

Moomins are synonymous with Finnish life, like saunas, porridge and mökki (summer cottages) culture. The large-snouted white fairytale creatures feature in the Moomin books, which are published in nearly sixty languages. Moomin World, a theme park 100 miles from Helsinki, crawls with tourists come summer — some feat, in a country with roughly twenty-one inhabitants per square kilometer. Moomin merch is ubiquitous too; fans are cult-like in their collection of rare mugs and first editions. Every day, Tove Jansson’s iconography is inked into skin. And it’d got under mine, in a way. In my twenties, a boyfriend’s collection of paraphernalia from a Finnish former partner quelled any curiosity about Jansson’s imaginary oafs (and Finland).

Quizzed on how to assimilate to new cultures, travel writer and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain once said: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” The “Opening a bottle with…” series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, in new places. To me, booking a ski trip at the start of the year is the ultimate luxury. With my birthday falling on the first of January, when the ball drops, I feel a sense of melancholy. As hangovers descend and diets begin, I want to carry on celebrating.  In European ski resorts, they keep the festivities going well into March. Christmas lights and religious displays stay twinkling. Fresh snow combats the winter blues. Everyone’s happy to share a bottle of good wine.

I arrived home six pounds heavier after three weeks in Sicily. That is the weight of a gallon of milk. Eight cans of beer. Or a small Yorkshire Terrier. I could try blaming the Cerebrus heatwave on my filthy granita habit and lack of almost any bodily movement (and it didn’t help) but the reality is this: Sicily is the fantastical realm they say it is and stupendously beautiful. And the food is even better.  Roman, Arab, French, Greek and North African influences spectacularize every meal. Almond milk granita is spooned into glistening brioche rolls before you can wipe the sleep from your eyes. Chocolate cannoli appear out of nowhere at breakfast. Arancini oozes globs of molten cheese in a manner that’s, quite frankly, sexy.

You just can’t beat London at Christmas. Unless you’re lining up to get into the Tube station (never mind onto a train) at Oxford Circus, in the pissing rain. Then you’re better off in one of those glass igloos in Finland.  When I’m in town for the holidays, I find myself returning to a few old faithfuls, with a few old faithfuls. The Zetter Marylebone Keep this gem up your sleeve for when the crowds become a little too much. A warren of sumptuous suites and a lavish, candlelit parlor awaits at dinky Zetter Marylebone hotel, just a couple of streets back from shopping mecca Selfridges. Divide and conquer last-minute shopping with Mom, then meet here at lunchtime for a swift recovery.

Boston Harbor Hotel, 6:42 a.m. I tossed on a robe, had a fight with an unfamiliar coffee machine, then threw back my bedroom curtains to soak up the best part of chronic jet lag. Fuschia skies intensified before a beautifully fat, gold sun peeped above the horizon. Some hours later, a three-tier stand stacked with PB&J sandwiches, smoked salmon, vanilla bean scones and fig jam obscured the same uninterrupted view, from the Rowes Wharf Sea Grille downstairs. Proffered a frankly overwhelming selection of colorful loose leaf teas, the irony wasn’t lost on me, a Brit, as I raised a pinky. “Green Sparkling… Tropical Oolong… Organic Big Ben English Breakfast… Chai Imperial? How about L’Herboriste?

“There is too much Nutella in the cornetto.” Not the words you hope to hear while trudging up the craggy slope of the most active volcano in Europe, in the wrong footwear. Clouds of black dust kicked up into my nostrils. A white butterfly posed starkly against dried black lava.  “Come, ragas, I want to show you something. These are lava bombs. I am standing on thiiiiiiick liquid. The lava! It went splat-ta! Like pizza dough!” Our guide Vincenzio gesticulated at his bedraggled group, inwardly asking themselves why they’d volunteered to tackle Mount Etna in a heatwave. “A big mama. She-” A robotic siren interrupted Vincenzio mid-flow, screeching from a startled septuagenarian’s Nokia. A teenager patted down his jean pocket, confused.

“Stealth wealth” became A Thing in 2023. TikTok was awash with “get the look!” fashion videos; magazines full of think pieces on crisp white shirts and camel cashmere. The idea is to ooze money — or at least look like you do — in classic, understated cuts and colors. What the Streeps and Paltrows have been doing for decades is now the standard for the aspirational and chronically online.  The trend came to mind as I tumbled into Rome’s five-star Anantara Palazzo Naiadi during the Cerberus heatwave. Slick with sweat, a suitcase half my size and missing one wheel, toenails unpainted and there to interview chef Heros de Agostinis, I wished I’d paid more attention. There are fancy hotels, then there are stratospherically fancy hotels like this one.

Halloween traditions might hail from All Hallows’ Eve, the Christian celebration preceding All Saints’ Day, but that has roots in Samhain — a Celtic pagan festival. Long before Westerners carved pumpkins come fall, the Scots were sticking knives into "neeps" (turnips). Disguised children ("guisers") warded off evil spirits on the streets of Scotland centuries before brats in Gryffindor scarves demanded Twinkies.  There could hardly be a better place to spend the spookiest time of the year than Edinburgh, with its reliably moody weather and litany of imposing buildings. Those seeking to be truly disturbed need simply research the capital’s very real history of witch hunts, public executions and plague.

“For the bravest in the group. Exit Flow from the back.” “We’ve found it. It is insane.” “This is the best thing I’ve ever done.” The WhatsApp messages came through thick and fast. Then, a video of pitch darkness, rising steam just visible, festoon lights swaying in the wind. The unmistakable trill of “Bohemian Rhapsody” bleated out by drunken strangers. Separated on the last night of “The Flow,” Helsinki’s biggest music and arts festival, I’d lost my comrades to Sompasauna, a twenty-four-hour lakeside guerilla sauna-cum-DIY community space where anyone is welcome, and (almost) anything goes. For the uninitiated (me), getting naked and jumping in freezing waters seems a bizarre end to an urban music festival.

It is 7:30 a.m. and already seventy degrees in Bowness-on-Windermere. A rare, early summer heatwave. My friend Ebele and I lower ourselves into a sunken outdoor hot tub in groggy disbelief. We appear to have woken up in Utopia. Llamas and alpacas frolic yards away as we sip coffees in silence. A butterfly lands on the decking. There’s no noise but for the bubbles, until a perfect breeze ruffles the fronds of the tree that’s dappling the sunlight. The grass could not be greener, skies cerulean. This is the definition of “bucolic,” I think. William Blake’s England, plus massage jets. His pastoral poems that plagued me in university start to make more sense (plenty of lambs here, too; the local “Herdies”).

“You are Kevin?” “Pardon?” Embarking on a solo week driving around Mallorca, then losing my drivers license in transit? Not my finest hour. A fairytale wedding near the citrus grove-laden seaside town of Sollér brought me to the largest island of the Baleriacs. A chest infection, some big deadlines and three hotels to review an hour’s drive south of the venue inspired me to hire a car, so I could pootle around at my own pace. I realized my problem in Barcelona, waiting for my connecting flight. Paying for a coffee, I spotted my license was missing. I’d booked via OMIO (a journey planning site that pulls together trains, planes, ferries and coaches — I love that thing), which I quickly consulted to confirm the dearth of public transport on the island.

The Cerberus heatwave is as fierce as they said it would be. I feel like I’m being microwaved on a low heat, my phone hot to the touch inside my pocket. A friend and I heave suitcases into the imposing stone lobby of a.d. 1768, then slump on chairs, dizzy. A palatial, historic residence hidden in plain sight, I’m gratefully swallowed up by its high ceilings and cool shadows. We’ve navigated Italian roads (and road rage) from Catania to Ragusa Ibla in 107.6 degrees Fahrenheit to seek out one hotel, and one man: Ciccio Sultano.  Our month-long road trip through southern Italy is finishing in the late Baroque towns of UNESCO World Heritage Site Val di Noto, collectively rebuilt after a huge earthquake on January 11, 1693.

Prohibitively expensive. So huge it’s basically impossible to navigate without a car. Where the Kardashians live. These are the hard facts about Los Angeles that placed it low on my bucket list. But for music and movie obsessives, there’s that gravitational pull to feel what it’s like at the epicenter of culture. Staying with my best friend in Denver, I found my opportunity: a two-and-a-half-hour flight for $80. It’s weird to think my decision was somewhat influenced by a bunch of Angeleno housing developers dropping $21,000 on an ad campaign 100 years ago. I’m talking about the Hollywood sign of course, now permeating public consciousness for a full century. That’s a big birthday, as good an excuse as any finally to see it up close.