Amy Rose Everett

Forget Barcelona. Say sayonara to San Fran. And so long, London. Post-Covid, Lisbon has become a hub for the creative, hungry and cosmopolitan. A throng of new restaurants, wine bars and buzzy co-working spots has formed a playground for the young and ambitious.  They’re squeezing every last drop out of their free time, too, joining the tourists in thumping nightclubs before escaping to beautiful  beaches. But plenty of weekend visitors don’t know (or have time to discover) that the city is flanked by bucolic countryside, dotted with world-class hotels and agriturismos. A forty-minute drive can take you to pristine white sands, enchanting pine forests, retro beachfronts and sprawling national parks. Next time you’re in town, tack a road trip onto your city break.

Quizzed on how best to assimilate a new culture, travel writer and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain once uttered the famous line: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” I never met the man, but still I miss him and his deft writing. The Opening a Bottle series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, in whatever city I’ve washed up in.  “What is it, love?” A British lady, tanned deep walnut, is curious, as are most passersby. I’m standing outside the imposing red façade of Red Chalet in the sleepy town of Armação de Pêra, in Portugal’s Algarve. She’s the third septuagenarian to greet me since I touched down. I smile to myself — some stereotypes exist because they’re true.

Sunrise in Johannesburg, blazing a brighter red than I can recall seeing before. The orb seems unnaturally huge; burning my retina as it flashes through the thick canopy of leaves covering the largest manmade park in the world.  I’m looking out over the Koppies (“small hill” in Afrikaans) at one of Joburg’s most spectacular views, from Melville suburb’s highest point. Albeit, from behind a laptop. I’ve got a second coffee on the go at Pablo Guest House while attempting to carve out an itinerary for this last-minute jaunt. I’d jumped on a plane from Cape Town with Ashlee, a friend who grew up here. Her father lives in a looming school house stuffed with antiques, which she has the grand job of sorting through and selling on.

Thirty feet underwater, somewhere on the False Bay coast near Simon’s Town in the Western Cape, South Africa. I’m getting battered by a strong current, deep in a kelp forest. I squint upwards and spot a pair of flippers. Kicking... upwards. My friend Abie is in a pickle. First of all, she’s vertical — not desirable in diving gear — and I can see now, she’s tangled. Brown kelp fronds the girth of beer cans shoot up all around us, forming a confused mass. I panic but try not to show it. Being buddied up with an old mate for a genuinely dangerous sport — you’re expected to know what you’re doing — has its downsides. I realize we are the responsible adults I’m looking around for.

To beat the killer combination of jet lag and altitude on arrival in the Mile High City, use the tools at your disposal — or local dispensary. I advise newcomers to: Jog around Cheesman Park and the Botanic Gardens in bright sunshine, or thick snow (likely both) Buy up all the melatonin in Walgreens Drink copious local beers Have a smoke, if that’s your jam Grab a meal Hit the hay Repeat as necessary Denver’s bursting with shiny new concept restaurants and kitsch little nooks to drop into; so my muddled brain was grateful for any steer. I hounded discerning friends for recommendations, downloaded Stoned Appetit (a genius app full of the best spots to satisfy the munchies), and took aim at anywhere with a James Beard nod.

Quizzed on how best to assimilate a new culture, travel writer and celebrity chef Anthony Bourdain once uttered the famous line: “Drink heavily with locals whenever possible.” I never met the man, but still I miss him and his deft writing. The Opening a Bottle series is about getting pickled with people far cooler than I am, in whatever city I’ve washed up in.  It’s my first proper day of spring on home soil, and it’s a blinder. Not a cloud in the sky, and a glorious cool breeze wafting the scent of mown grass across Lime Wood Hotel’s sumptuous gardens. They’re bursting with color, flowers blooming in every direction. White stone walls are awash with lilac wisteria. I’ve driven down to rural Hampshire from London to meet lauded resident chef Luke Holder.

Blazing sunshine. Endless traffic. Horns honking. Wine bars heaving. Trance music blasting. Street hawkers calling. Coastal wind (called the "Cape Doctor" by locals) whistling. Grit in one eye, the other looking over my shoulder. Hair flying in every direction. To explore central Cape Town is to be gut-punched: by an evolving backdrop of sublime nature and the complexity of the human condition. To visit the city’s world-class restaurants, concept stores and co-working sites is to share a street with the sick, hungry and homeless. Look up, and you’re hypnotized by the monolithic mountains beyond; a brief distraction from the painfully obvious disparity. From some angles it feels like the Mother City is being wrapped in a tight hug.

“What the f—” “Don’t look directly at it. I’m serious, that thing is cursed.”  My childhood best friend Sofie has just scooped me up from the epicenter of weirdness that is Denver International Airport, one hand on the steering wheel, the other blocking my view of a thirty-five-foot, bright blue fiberglass horse rearing at nothing in particular. I’m sleep-deprived, but I’m not seeing things. “Why are its eyes burning red?” “Not sure. The man who built it died during construction. Blucifer fell on him and severed a main artery.” I’ve no energy left for questions. I’m fresh from nine hours in a tin can sitting next to an effusive new “friend,” insistent on sharing conspiracy theories linked to our destination.

Somewhat by accident, I’ve become a professional glutton. The sort of person who’ll traipse for an hour in the wrong direction, just to try the breakfast burrito that a friend of a friend’s chef boyfriend won’t shut up about. By some miracle, I get to write about it. I’m often asked about the best thing I’ve eaten recently, and where. It’s hard to quantify the exact chemical make-up of the perfect meal, but I know this to be true: it’s the company that makes a place stick. A treasured friend or a spanking new one; a cheeky flirt in a fresh city. I like a busy open kitchen, lighting low enough to hide my eye bags, quietly great service and maybe a bit of hip hop on a crackly record player. These are the places I flew to try, and would again. Choose your company wisely.

I’d heard that KwaZulu-Natal province in South Africa delivers life-changing memories. Roaming Shaka Zulu’s hunting ground. The Big Five. Bushveld soil on your shoes. Falling asleep to the music of the night, curtains open in anticipation of a burning sunrise. I flew there for a thrilling, once-in-a-lifetime safari experience. And I got it. While sitting on the toilet. It’s a unique frustration, hearing the phone ring out, from the bathroom. My first morning at Thanda Safari transports me back to my teenage years in the 2000s; the last time I had a house phone. “I’m coming!” I shout to no one in particular, having quickly dashed to my digs, post-crack of dawn game drive. “Miss Everett! Oh, thank goodness! You ARE there! You must not leave your room!

Arriving to spend a month in Denver, Colorado, decision-paralysis hit me like a ton of bricks. Almost as hard as the altitude. And the jet lag. I’d dreamed of downing tools come the weekend, hopping in the car to explore different ski towns at the tail end of the season. What a life locals have, so close to some of the best skiing in the world. But with thirty-two resorts, how to choose? And more importantly, get there? Local friends quickly schooled me on the (insane) highway traffic to the mountains and reminded me to check for snow storms up top. Denver weather is famously mercurial during the springtime. “What should I pack?” I’d phoned to quiz my host, surrounded by thermal leggings, bikinis, summer dresses and snow boots. “Everything,” came the reply. Right then.

“There’s no snow. Nothing.” The week after Christmas, 2023. Eager to ski, I’d phoned an old friend living in a French resort at low altitude. I hoped she’d make me feel better about the headlines splashed across the newsstands. “There’s Snowhere To Ski!” “Europe Ski Resorts Close Due To Lack Of Snow.” “Record Warm Winter In Parts Of Europe Forces Closure Of Ski Slopes.” It was true, she sighed. Birds were chirping as if spring had arrived, heavy rain washing away whatever dusting of the white stuff had settled. “You’re going to have to get high”. An admittedly fairweather skier, I usually take aim at European resorts in March. When I’m lucky enough to go, my trips happen to span International Women’s Day.

From the lilting normcore of Sally Rooney’s Normal People to the frenetic genius of poetic, post-(post?) punk band Fontaines D.C., I’m drawn to talented Irish voices of late. Martin McDonagh’s Oscar-nominated tragicomedy, The Banshees of Inisherin, won three Golden Globes, and my heart, to boot. And quite rightly. It’s news to no one that the Irish have always been exceptional storytellers; some stereotypes stick because they are true. Plenty of the finest words ever written hail from the town of the hurdled ford, Baile Átha Cliath, Dublin. This fact was recognized by UNESCO in 2010, when they named it a City of Literature.

Six months of the year, I’m a (wannabe) Lisboeta, “a person from Lisbon.” A peripatetic British food and travel journalist somewhat scuppered by Brexit, I’m allowed in the Schengen Area for up to ninety days in any 180-day block. I max them out before I’m sent packing. I’ve come to think of these moments in time as “chapters,” in a half-hearted attempt to romanticize the loss of my border privileges. Lisbon is the object of my affections — and has become my base for European chapters from which I breathlessly ping between countries. I try new dishes and try not to fall in love with anyone before I’m ordered home (rather inconvenient: "getting married for the visa" jokes grow less and less funny).

I am completely naked, shivering and mildly terrified. The word “vulnerable” goes partway to describing my state as my toes curl over the edge of a slippery jetty, in pitch-darkness. Did I mention that I am completely naked? This is not a fever dream, but a midweek wellness pursuit on the island of Nacka, where Stockholm city and countryside meet. It’s 7 p.m. and the sun is long gone. I inwardly curse a previous incarnation of myself, who booked this intrepid getaway while holed up in my warm apartment. The trip grew from my preoccupation with two Nordic lifestyle concepts currently in vogue: Swedish lagom (loosely translated as “balanced living”) and Danish hygge (retreating somewhere cozy, often with friends).