America the Beautiful

America has exposed the world to a cadre of carping TV Housewives, the Dorito taco shell, a fried chicken sandwich with no bread just extra fried chicken and the acting career of Nicholas Cage. We sincerely apologize for that last one and won't let it happen again. 

Fortunately, this great land has so much more to offer visitors than just trans-fats and overacting. From the majestic mountains of Yosemite to the cool breezes of the Chesapeake Bay, from the bustle of Times Square to the buzz of a good old-fashioned rock show, there is more to experience than I have space to write about.

Instead, in honor of this week's July 4th celebration, I'm wearing my patriotism on my sleeve via virtual visual aid. There are certain symbols of America that remind me of all the great things we bring to the table. Baseball and apple pie are great, but I'd prefer a beat up old Chevy and a 19th Century war ship any day. 

Here are a few of my photos that stand out as American symbols. Some are natural wonders, like the moonscape Badlands of South Dakota or Wyoming's big sky country. And others are more personal, like a rock and roll show on a boat off of New York, a ride on an old-timey ferris wheel or an up close encounter with a buffalo. All are made in the U.S.A. and none of them were featured in Ghost Rider.

(Add your favorite U.S. photos in the comment section below!)

Sailing the Chesapeake - Maryland

Stormy Times Square - NYC

Cherry Blossoms - Washington, D.C.

Key West Sunset - Florida

The Mighty Half Dome - Yosemite, CA

Big Sky Country - Wyoming

Rock & Roll with Roger Clyne - concert on a boat off Manhattan, NYC

The Badlands - South Dakota (that's me up on the ridge)

Steadfast Chevy - Turquoise Trail, New Mexico

Navy Pier Carnival - Chicago, IL

Buffalo! - South Dakota

Old Ironsides - Boston, MA

Portland Head Lighthouse - Cape Elizabeth, Maine

WiTList - Good Old Places for a Pint

Barley, hops, yeast, water; seems like such a simple concoction. Yet somehow, a beer is never just a beer. It’s a round with a few friends or a toast in celebration. It brings people together and consoles in silence. And in so many places around the globe, it is a lifestyle, an attraction, an identity.

That’s why it takes a truly special place to serve it well and serve it in abundance. True, any old bar can pour from a tap or crank the top off a Bud Light bottle for you. But only a unique, dedicated establishment becomes a watering hole. There is no pretension, no expectation, no snobbery or braggadocio. Just an empty seat, a lengthy beer list and a perfect pour every time.

These are the places where everybody knows your name, if you’re lucky enough to live close enough to be a regular. And if you’re just passing through, these are the places that’ll learn your name, at least for the night, long enough to say it in a toast.

My choices:

10. L'Oncle Antoine - Quebec City, Canada

A cavernous pub in the shadows of Old Quebec’s walls, L’Oncle Antoine has taken Quebec City’s unique brand of Euro-hospitality, extracted all pretense and soaked it in local brew. The extensive beer list features everything from the traditional American domestic and imports to Quebec’s own, such as Unibrau (my favorites being the Troi Pistoles or Fin du Monde). After a day of strolling the cobblestone streets or sipping expensive cocktails in the lounge at Chateau Frontenac, a bottle of brew in a dark, British-style pub is the right remedy for escaping the crowds. Antoine will keep your mind occupied with a case full of board games, playing cards and chess pieces, just to make sure you don’t let the potent local suds overwhelm the brain too quickly. Otherwise, strike up a conversation with the waitress or barkeep, catch a soccer match on the tube or just savor every sip in the Great White North.  

9. Wynkoop Brewery, Denver, Colorado

Three words: Chili Pepper Beer. Patty's Chile Beer, to be exact, a Wynkoop house specialty. The award-winning brew comes infused with Anaheim chiles and smoked Ancho peppers. It is light, with a golden color and a slightly reddish hue. The pepper aroma hits you before the smoky flavor on first sip. The chile bite is there but not overpowering and it goes down surprisingly smooth. There's a savory heat that builds up the palette from a traditional German-type beer to something totally unique and flavorful.


Colorado's micro-brew community is legendary and you can't go wrong with most any choice in the Rockies. But Wynkoop has staked a claim near the top. For a full explanation of why Wynkoop is king, read here http://www.whereverittakestravel.blogspot.com/2011/11/bike-shorts-on-denver-barstool.html

8. Anodyne, Albuquerque, New Mexico

Some folks have been known to call me an arrogant bastard. Therefore, anywhere with Arrogant Bastard on tap is all right with me. Throw in a large bottle selection (over 120 by their count), including some great locals like the clean Alien Amber, and you’ve got yourself a full-on, fun-time beer bar. Located on one of ABQ’s main drags, this upstairs, dimly lit pool hall is bedazzled in beer paraphernalia and jukeboxes. It has an edgy hipster vibe that is surprisingly approachable and welcoming, in part due to the comfy seating possibilities at the top of the staircase. The regulars streamed in, clapping each other on the backs and petting their dogs, which health codes or not, were just as welcomed as their bipedal owners. Sidestepping a canine did make a couple billiard shots harder than they should’ve been, but then again I didn’t mind the excuse for missing. The name - Anodyne - means, "a medicine that relieves or allays pain." Exactly. 

check them out at: http://theanodyne.com/

7. Trinity Brewhouse, Providence, Rhode Island

I have an affinity for Trinity. Mostly because a good amount of my college days were spent in the basement at this Providence, Rhode Island microbrewery, where the dark walls, tables and corners make it the perfect place to unwind after (or during, or instead of) a study session. Upstairs they serve spectacular burgers to help sop up the pints of award-winning beer, like the Rhode Island IPA. I’m a huge fan of the Redrum Imperial, almost as much as I’m a fan of the mural high along the dining room wall depicting famous musicians enjoying a brew. Can you spot John Lennon and Kurt Cobain sharing a pint with The Notorious B.I.G. and The Rat Pack? If you’re swinging through New England, make it a point to hit Lil’ Rhodey and the state’s best brew pub. And the best part, when you’re done at Trinity you can grab a growler or three for the road. And yes, they do fit into a dorm room micro-fridge.

check them out at: http://trinitybrewhouse.com/

6. Big City / Sunset Grill, Allston, Massachusetts
Samuel Adams, Boston Beer Works and Harpoon have long dominated Boston’s beer scene. And rightfully so, because each is distinctly New England, diverse, flavorful and offer some of the best beers on the planet, let alone the Northeast. But the place that brings them all together, along with an enormous international lineup of their hoppy cousins, is Big City / Sunset Grill in Allston. Two establishments under the same owner, literally one on top of the other, this college neighborhood hangout is on the bottom floor a Mexican cantina (Sunset) and above a jiving pool hall (Big City). But what they share is a phenomenal beer menu, complete with your standard ambers and ales all the way to doppel bock and rauch bier. The ability to mix and match in a flight allows you to taste samples from around the world. Try their seasonal mash ups, or takes on the typical black & tan, like the Guinness and Harpoon Winter Warmer, which might remind you of french toast in a glass. And don’t count out the food at both places. The BBQ chicken nachos at Big City do to cheese and tortilla chips what Bostonians do to the English language – make it wicked awesome. 

check them out at: http://www.allstonsfinest.com/

5. Firehouse Brewing Company, Rapid City, South Dakota

Despite the history running through the walls of this place – it is South Dakota’s first brewpub and is located in Rapid City’s original firehouse – you can consider Firehouse Brewing Company the offspring of the Colorado microbreweries that dominate the Rocky Mountain region. Which is absolutely not a bad thing. The relaxed atmosphere, local entertainment and genuine people honing their craft are just like most small brewpubs, but Firehouse adds nostalgia and a surprising sense of escape. Sitting out on the patio, watching some live music and sipping a glass of Smoke Jumper Stout or Brown Cow Ale is the best way to take a timeout from whatever cross-country, Wally World family road trip hell you’re enduring. The boys on Mt. Rushmore can wait; they’re not going anywhere. Waiter, another round. Check them out at: http://www.firehousebrewing.com/Brews.aspx

4. Bier Baron, Washington, D.C.


Of the 500 bottles and 50 drafts that this D.C. pub offers, my cousin decided to order something called the Polish Super Beer. Let’s just say that later that night, he was in no position to leap tall buildings in a single bound. There are countless great bars and happy hour specials in our nation’s capital. But the founding fathers would have appreciated Bier Baron’s gritty denial of no-option tyranny. The beer menu should be located in the National Archives and the no-nonsense atmosphere and service lets you know this place takes its beer seriously. I first visited Bier Baron back when it was called The Brickskeller. If anything, the new owners have ramped up the vibe but kept the comfortable brick wall, basement bar feel that makes this establishment worth walking the National Mall for. 


check them out at: http://www.bierbarondc.com/


3. The Black Friar Pub, London, UK

London sometimes gets a bad culinary rap. But when it comes to cask-pumped ales, you’ll not hear a complaint from me. Which makes sense at the Black Friar Pub, since the Dominican Friars for whom it is named were probably enjoying their brew in silence back in the day.

Since I’m a Providence College grad I have a certain fondness for anything Friar-related. But this corner pub in London’s Blackfriar district would make anyone a fan, regardless of collegiate affiliation. From the giant, fat black friar statue above the door, to the beautiful, ornate thirteenth century carvings and signs to the marble, wrought iron and mosaic tiles, the pub itself is worth a visit. The food is filling and tasty and the beer, most important of all, is well kept, diverse and served quickly.

On a crowded afternoon we were lucky enough to snag a small table in a small back room with a gorgeous vaulted, decorated ceiling. A few hours later we realized we had drank away the afternoon and by God, we didn’t feel a bit guilty. Seems to be a common theme with every kind of Friar, and that’s why I’m glad to be one. 

2. Chinese Tower Beer Garden, Munich, Germany

When you’re talking about beer and places to drink it, anywhere in Germany basically beats anywhere else. Anywhere. They serve beer in halls, gardens, at giant tables, with huge mugs. But if the beer weren’t good, none of it would matter. Fortunately for the Germans, they established themselves as a world power in beer quite some time ago. Fortunately for the rest of the world, they’re willing to share.

Down in Bavaria, the city of Munich plays host to the world’s foremost beer party – Oktoberfest. But it isn’t Oktoberfest that has me gushing over the German’s fancy for fermenting. You won’t leave Munich without appreciating the beer culture. And you can’t appreciate the beer culture unless you experience it. Besides late nights at long tables at beer halls, my choice goes to the outdoor beer gardens, one of the most unique and fun environments at which to grab a stein. Germany and the rest of the world have plenty. But a beer garden in an English Garden, under a Chinese Pagoda that houses an oompa brass band? That’s just too crazy not to work.

Munich’s English Garden – their version of Central Park – revolves around the Chinese Tower, a tiered pagoda with a thriving beer garden at its foundation. Sitting down with a stein on a beautiful day, I people-watched everyone from mothers pushing baby carriages to euro hipsters to tourists to a few of those crazy guys who were just surfing in the river (yes, that’s right). I grabbed a giant soft pretzel, some bratwurst and a radler to quench my thirst. The beer-lemonade mix worked better than Gatorade. After moving on the regular light beer, I was almost ready to stand up and chant “Prost!” with the brass band playing high above on one of the pagoda’s tiers.

Just don’t forget to return your mug with the little green chip they give you at checkout. You’ll get a refund. They have to make sure you don’t run off with their mugs, of course. Those Germans have a lot of beer and there are a lot of people that want it. 

1. Captain Tony's, Key West, Florida

Ernest Hemingway sat on these stools. Jimmy Buffet too. And so did some guy named Earl from Poughkeepsie in his Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. But that’s the beauty of the world’s greatest dive bar, located at the Southernmost point of the United States.

Captain Tony’s is a legend, and not just because of it’s inclusion in the Buffet song “Last Mago in Paris” or because of its eponymous, grizzled owner. It’s not a legend because of some huge unique beer selection. No, it’s a legend because it’s accessible. Fisherman and tourist sit side by side while a local band rattles away. Grab a stool. Grab a beer. Grab a conversation with anyone. Next thing you know, the dusk is settling in and you’re a few steps away from Key West’s best show – the sunset.

I had the pleasure of meeting Captain Tony himself before he passed away. The Captain was a staple at the bar, his weathered face a welcome reminder that a hard life is filled with equal parts hard work and hard partying.

He was leaning against the side merchandise bar soliciting kisses from a couple buxom coeds. Next to him on the bar was a jar that he made people put a dollar into if they wanted a photo with him. When it was my turn, he told my wife (girlfriend at the time) and I that the money was for a hooker when he went to Vegas. That seemed about right, since he solicited a kiss from my girlfriend and made several comments about her chest size while staring in that general direction. Then he laughed it off, shook my hand, told me to enjoy myself at his bar and gave me a t-shirt three sizes too big with his face on it. In that moment, that dirty old man became my hero.

He may be gone but Captain Tony’s Key West vibe remains at his bar and all along Duval Street. So like Jimmy Buffet recommends, go down to Captain Tony’s to get out of the heat. 

Reader choices:

Theresa Jontz check her out on Twitter @redfragglemusic : 


"Mission Delores, Brooklyn, NY (my local bar, half outdoors, half indoors, rotating beer list, great bartenders, pinball, in an old auto body shop)

Hot Bird, Brooklyn, NY (big outdoor beer garden courtyard, next to a BBQ place, all on an old 40s/50s gas station/service station) 

BAR New Haven, CT (because there's New Haven pizza involved and they brew their own beer)

Barcade, Brooklyn, NY (craft beer and old school video games)

Johnny Brenda's, Philadelphia, PA (because there's great food, local beer AND music)

The Brewer's Art, Baltimore, MD. (cool location, great beer and cool glasses)

Emily Place: 

"Cascade Barrel House, Portland OR (House of sour)- that's my fave. Rob has a long list... in SF starting with Toronado and in Oakland, Beer Revolution."

Tony Izzo: 

"Stone's Public House, Ashland, MA and Manayunk Brewery, Philadelphia, PA

Mike Raia check him out on Twitter @mikeraia : 


"Boston Beer Works. Trinity Brew House. Any Dogfish Head bar. Flying Dog Brewery in Frederick. And the place on route one in hyattsville that I can't think of."


Brendon Sullivan: 


"I have to recommend two bars from my adopted hometown of Amesbury [Massachusetts]: The Ale House and The Barking Dog."


John Judge: 


"Mr. Pickwick's Pub, Luzern, Switzerland"

June Travel Column - Got Moose?

Check out my June Travel Column in some of the Gatehouse Media Massachusetts newspapers:

http://www.wickedlocal.com/danvers/news/lifestyle/columnists/x1805321061/COLUMN-Got-moose#axzz1yYZkNKuI

Danke, Papa - rewrite

(I took a short piece from a couple years ago and updated / rewrote it in anticipation of Father's Day)

James “Gigi” DeSimone earned his travel chops the hard way: dodging shrapnel and Nazis. He participated in the European theater during World War II and as a field medic on D-Day, saw nightmares of the unforgettable kind.

But my grandfather saw some other things in Europe that he could not forget; but those, he wanted to remember. He found them by exploring, when he was able. He sought out good experiences, thinking that all he knew of European life, days filled with explosions and gore, nights dripping with anxiety, couldn’t be the finality of existence across the Atlantic. 

Whether to protect us kids or to keep the unforgettable somewhat forgotten, he doesn’t talk about wartime much. What he does recount are his adventures that took him around France and Belgium, riding on trucks and meeting girls. He even had a girlfriend in Paris, which he likes to point out in front of my grandmother for a good laugh and eye roll. Michelle Dupont may still be waiting for him on, “one of those bridges over that river.”

When he returned from Europe, met my grandmother Alice and started a family, they shared a common love for travel. In their day, Nana and Papa were the avidest of avid world travelers. Mexico, Ireland, Italy, the world was their oyster - scratch that, my maternal grandmother is extremely allergic to shellfish - the world was their, let’s say, filet mignon.

Years slipped by and travel went away with the hearing, eyesight and easy mobility. They even squashed their annual snowbird migration to their beloved home in Florida (the Tin Can, as my cousins as I call it).

But nothing can hide the gleam that undoubtedly sparks in their eyes when they start reminiscing about their travels together. Nana has a hard time seeing, but I know she sees those mental pictures in high definition without any need for glasses.

The night before my wife and I left for our three-week European honeymoon, we visited my grandparents hoping to get a few travel tips and maybe a story or two.

They didn’t disappoint. Nana corrected Papa during a story about a salesman on a beach in Mexico who told my grandmother she was too grande to wear the shawls he sold out of his kiosk.

And then my grandfather got up and told us to wait a minute. He went to his room and came back holding a small 4 inch by 4 inch brown booklet and handed it to me.

On the tattered front cover were the words, German Language Guide.

I held it like it was made of crystal, afraid if I opened the cover the whole booklet would disintegrate in my palm. But Papa said to open it, so I did.

The inside cover reads:

War Department

Washington 25, D.C. 22 June 1943.

TM 30-306, German Language Guide, to be used with the Introductory Series Language Records, is published for military personnel only, and is not to be republished in whole or part without the consent of the War Department. By order of the Secretary of War:

G.C. Marshall, 

Chief of Staff.

He saved it for 67 years. This booklet had been with him throughout Europe and clearly had some wear and tear. I couldn’t help wondering how he used it, since my grandfather never actually proceeded into Germany with the Army. I ignored the thought and instead rapidly began flipping through it like a kid with a comic book.

On the next page was an Archie comics-esque cartoon depicting four G.I.s sitting around a record player, presumably practicing their German. Each one had a confounded look and the small Dachshund dog with them appeared to be howling at their ineptitude (the weiner dog was all over the booklet, I’m guessing he was the least offensive representative of German culture they could come up with in 1943). Humor was undoubtedly the theme. The comics run throughout, each one is of U.S. soldiers mocking each other for their poor bilingualism. There’s even a general in a bathtub that looks suspiciously like Wilford Brimley.

The possibly offensive cartoons led to outdated maps and a few dozen pages of common German words and phrases. All in all, it appeared to be quite a helpful piece of literature. Something I would actually find useful in Germany.

“That’s for you,” my grandfather said. “Take it with you.”

I was touched but my stupid practicality blurted out, “But we aren’t going to Germany. We’re doing France, Switzerland and Italy.”

He smiled and I couldn’t help but think he had something wise to impart upon me but withheld it, possibly knowing the merits of making the discovery on my own.

Instead he said, “Well I wish I kept the French one too.”

At a train station in Bern, Switzerland two weeks later, I emerged on the platform to signs written solely in German. My wife and I anticipated French and Italian along our journey, not factoring in the third language of the Swiss – but Papa had. Too bad I left the German booklet home. That was the last time I didn’t listen to my grandfather. That was the last time I didn’t take a little bit of him wherever I went.

Papa was the original adventurer in the family. He seized opportunity. He saw whatever he could, experienced whatever he could experience. And despite the horrors of war or the difficult times, the only memories he shares are unabashedly joyous and distinctly humorous. And of all the things he has given me, I cherish this outlook the most (his German booklet is a close second).

At the Smithsonian Air & Space museum in Washington, D.C. there is a World War II exhibit. There, somewhat out of the way of 1940s aircraft, is a display case with era memorabilia. The last time I was there, I noticed a small green booklet that looked vaguely familiar. It was the Japanese Language Guide. Next to it in blue was the French Language Guide. But nowhere in the case was the brown German booklet that I had tucked away safely at home.

I’m sure there are many out there somewhere and maybe someday I’ll offer to give mine to the museum. But for now, it’s not going anywhere except with me the next time I visit Europe. Just in case.

I’ve learned a very important word from it.

Danke. As in, danke Papa.

Monthly Column - Windy City Whirlwind

Check out my latest monthly travel column from the Wicked Local newspapers. May's edition: From giant skyscrapers to giant ferris wheels to giant beans, how to bring the large-scale scenery of Chicago, IL down to size. 

http://www.wickedlocal.com/saugus/newsnow/x2138754252/Wherever-it-Takes-column-A-Windy-City-whirlwind##axzz1vcLHWN2X

Guest Blog: Cheap Music in Vienna

Check out my Guest Blogger piece over on the great Where I've Been (and then sign up for their site!): http://blog.whereivebeen.com/2012/05/singing-in-streets-cheap-music-in.html

Great music and eats in Vienna, Austria!


You can also read the full text below from the Where I've Been blog

TUESDAY, MAY 15, 2012

Singing in the Streets: Cheap Music in Vienna, Austria

He was one of the most talented musicians I had ever heard. Sitting alone in front of his audience, his head bent in concentration over the cello. His fingers fluttered effortlessly in time with the bow and generated a haunting, complex melody. And he didn't even flinch when a black Mercedes zipped around him, horn blaring. You expect to find gifted musicians in Vienna, Austria, a city world-renowned for producing and nurturing many of history's greatest composers. You expect to attend a concert, hear the disciples of Mozart and Strauss practice their craft at the highest level. You do not expect to do so in the middle of a traffic circle. 

But Vienna's music culture is not allocated solely to expensive opera houses and ornate palace halls. Music and music's history are so much a part of Vienna, that standing room and street corners often offer easier and more authentic substitutes.

I stumbled upon the cello player one evening in Michaelerplatz, a round courtyard carved into a corner of the enormous Hofburg Palace. The setting itself juxtaposed the elaborate, baroque wing of the Hapsburg’s winter residence, deity-laded fountains and all, with the trappings of modern traffic patterns. A narrow road emerged from the bowels of the palace itself, shooting out from underneath an archway before skirting Michaelerplatz's circular perimeter and branching off into a series of quaint boulevards. 

In the center of this roundabout, across from some preserved ancient Roman ruins, a young man sat alone with his polished cello. He was dressed in a full tuxedo, his dark hair purposefully disheveled. He was accompanied by a small speaker at his feet and an open instrument case a few feet away. 

Michaelerplatz, a plaza at one end of the Hofburg Palace

We must have caught him between pieces because people were already gathered along the waist-high stone wall that dissects the plaza, forming a perfect audience pit.

I believe in joining any impromptu group gathered in a public place, especially when it involves a musician. The quantity and quality of a city’s street performers is a good indicator on whether or not the indoor entertainment is worth anything. At the very least, it’s fun for free. So I claimed an empty wall spot just before the cello strings began humming.

In an instant, Vienna lived up to its musical reputation. The man with the cello played effortlessly through three classical movements. His small speaker supported him with taped percussion and horn, but his strings were always the star.

He began with a slow-paced piece, drowned in emotion. He paused briefly for applause, tipped his head in recognition and launched immediately into a fast-paced staccato. He tipped the scales, leaning into each stroke with gumption. More than a few heads bobbed along, mine included. He wrangled in the energy level for the third piece and boomed out a vaguely familiar tune. It was then that a black Mercedes raced out from the archway, bathing the cello player in headlight. He embraced the unplanned spotlight by closing his eyes, craning back his neck and hitting the song’s climactic point. His bit of flare earned a collective, “ooh” from the onlookers. 

The Mercedes sped off, the cello player came to a rousing finish and twenty pedestrians erupted in applause. Without a word, he stood up from his stool, bowed, picked up his speaker and case and strolled away. In seconds, Michaelerplatz was empty.

I could not name any of the cellist’s pieces, nor did that matter. I had listened to beautiful music in the shadow of one of Europe’s most ornate buildings, played by a master artist drowned in a soft lamplight. The atmosphere rivaled any opera house.

Vienna's street performers are like no other

Which is not to say the Staatstoper, Vienna’s majestic opera house, should not be on everyone’s Austrian must-see list. There is a fair amount of chance associated with finding good street musicians. In Vienna, or Salzburg or Munich for that matter, the odds just happen to be greatly in your favor. 

But most visitors seeking that classic musical experience have no shortage of opportunity, either. As soon as you emerge from the subway in the city’s busy Stephensplatz, salesmen dressed in Renaissance garb bombard tourists and locals alike with talk of cheap opera tickets and dinner shows. They are unnecessary.

The only things you need to enjoy a night of fine music, are strong legs and an open mind, because the Staatstoper offers standing room tickets. It’s a trick located in many good guidebooks, but one well worth taking advantage of.

I am by no means an opera guy. But an hour and a half prior to show time, I lined up at the Staatsoper box office with a couple hundred other people, curious about what was waiting for me inside. Four Euro later, I was being shuffled by ushers to a waiting area outside the mezzanine. Forty-five minutes prior to curtain, we entered into the shimmering, golden hall. We claimed spots along one of the tiered railings set aside for the standing room customers (they say bring a scarf to tie on the rail to save your spot, but any scrap of cloth will do). The railings provide good leaning and even have small screens that scroll translations during the show. 

If there is a better view inside this gorgeous opera house, I didn’t see it. Center stage, elevated above the floor seats, this box should have been reserved for royalty. Instead, a hundred or so casually dressed deal-seekers stood gawking at the elaborate, lush décor. The rows of red boxes stacked encircled the hall like a lush, velvet-trimmed beehive, and buzzed with a similar excitement as they filled with opera enthusiasts. 

With the start of that night’s production, Die Frau Ohne Schatten (The Woman Without a Shadow for all you non-German speakers), an opera by Richard Strauss, I found myself ignoring the translation screen altogether and focusing on the powerful voices onstage. Mainly, I did so because the opera’s story made little sense to me; a strange Prince and the Pauper-esque tale of a barren woman who teleports and casts spells. But the composition was beautiful and unlike any other musical experience. So when I left after an hour and a half, during the first intermission, I felt completely satisfied with my four Euro investment. 

That evening ended the way any good Viennese night should end: sitting under an umbrella at an outdoor café, sipping a bright orange Aperol spritzer, noshing on a slice of cake and listening to urban chatter floating down pedestrian boulevards.

The Staatsoper, Vienna's ornate opera house

On the walk back to the hotel, I took the long way through Michaelerplatz, thinking maybe I could catch lightning in a bottle twice. I walked across the roundabout to where the cello player had sat the previous night. Tonight the stone plaza was empty. There was no audience lined along the half-wall.

But I had no reason for disappointment. For fewer than ten U.S. dollars, I attended the opera and listened to an immensely talented cellist, who by all rights could have charged admission. A win all around, even if the street musicians had taken the night off. 

Just as I turned to leave the plaza, a group emerged from a chapel on the other end of the roundabout. They formed a haphazard half-circle near a street lamp. And for the next thirty minutes, I leaned against the half-wall along a street in Vienna, and listened to an angelic choir.

Biography

Michael Hartigan is a freelance travel writer from Boston, Massachusetts. From San Francisco to Salzburg, he has explored and written about unique people, places and traditions. Michael's writing has been featured in the Arizona Republic, USA Today and in his monthly travel column published in a series of local Massachusetts newspapers, such as the Danvers Herald. He believes that you should go wherever it takes, but always come back with a good story. Follow his blog at www.whereverittakes.com and on Twitter @WhereverItTakes

Signs, Signs Everywhere the Signs

No matter where we go, what languages we attempt or what cultures we infiltrate, us travelers must always rely on the kindness of strangers. Or at least their words of wisdom. More often than not, those sage suggestions come printed, painted or carved on an infinite array of canvases.

No doubt, if you've traveled you've depended on a sign or two to get you where you're going. Road signs, business signs, exit signs, bathroom signs - silent communication brings the world together.

Signs give direction; but guiding the lost means much more than rights and lefts. When humans post words on a wall (or a tree or a gate or anything), it immediately adds weighty significance to whatever comedy or tragedy they're enacting. Whether hilarious or hear-wrenching, urgent or introspective, a good sign can provide a travel memory as unforgettable as any statue or museum.

What better way to make sure the world remembers your legacy than by carving it into a tree on top of a mountain? If you went through those lengths to tell us, it must be important. I should probably pay attention. I could learn something, get a good laugh or at the very least, find the way to where I'm going.

Here are some of my favorite signs I've encountered around the world.

Location: Outside Denver, Colorado at Buffalo Bill's grave site and souvenir shop, atop the Rocky Mountain foothills.
I tried to put this ad out in a newspaper and I did not get the response I was hoping for. As soon as you walk through the door of the restaurant/souvenir shop (which sells fantastic bison meat hot dogs), you feast your eyes on this old-time want ad, straight out of a Western saloon. Why is this my favorite? Because if this describes a "good woman," what makes a "great woman"?

 

Location: Lover's Leap, The Black Hills in South Dakota

One of the most beautiful viewpoints in America, this sign is tacked on a tree near the precipice of Lover's Leap. From this vantage point, after a short hike through the Black Hills, the entire wooded region of South Dakota's southwest corner sprawls out before you. I printed out this photo and hung it in my office because if these aren't words to live by, I don't know what are. 

 Location: Black Friars Pub, London, UK

London's world famous pubs serve some of the best cask-pumped ale in the world. Creamy and stout, these libations are only half of the Black Friar's charm. A warm, old atmosphere mingles with a rowdy clientele to make a classic British pub. And in the back room, up against a mirror wall is a sign that I wholeheartedly agree with. England is home to some of history's most talented, creative and crafty wordsmiths. But I doubt any of them could say it better than this.

Location: The Jungfrau (Top of Europe), Switzerland

The Swiss clearly are confident you'll obey their signs, because the thin rope preventing you from mimicking the poor soul within the red triangle certainly isn't providing much extra protection. Two steps past this sign and you become a permanent part of the glacier that sprawls far into the distance. Everywhere you look is the most beautiful thing you've ever seen up atop the Jungfrau. Just also be careful to look where you're walking.

  

Location: Lake Konigsee, Berchtesgaden, Germany

This sign doesn't have as much to do with it's location as it does for what it stands for: beer garden. Anywhere in Bavaria, or anywhere in Germany, Austria or Illinois for all I care, a sign that says "Beer Garden" is a sign you must obey. This particular beer garden skirts the edge of Lake Konigsee, Germany, the most pristine lake in Europe, nestled under soaring alpine mountains in a whimsical Bavarian setting. But of course, this sign means beer - good beer. See the sign, follow the sign.

 

Location: Corniglia, Cinque Terre, Italy
It may not seem while you're doing it, but after scaling 382 stone steps in the blazing sun a little congratulations is a nice gesture. You may want to swear at this sign while your calf muscles scream, but once atop this seaside village outcrop, the breathtaking views will calm all anger and salve any pain. Everywhere in the Cinque Terre in jaw-droppingly gorgeous. But it's always nice to have the locals recognize you've done at least some work to enjoy their treasures.

Location: The Badlands, South Dakota 
Being from New England, we don't typically run into many rattlesnakes. Which is why a giant, bold sign that screams, "BEWARE RATTLESNAKES!" sort of catches you off guard. I must say, it worked, because during my entire hike through the moonscape Badlands, I threw rocks at every stick I saw on the ground. Didn't see any diamondbacks, but nevertheless hiking in this corner of America was an invigorating experience.

Location: The Turquoise Trail, between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, New Mexico
The Turquoise Trail, the scenic route between Albuquerque and Santa Fe, New Mexico, is a haven for artists and ghost towns alike. And apparently, some jokers. In one of the artsy villages, rows and rows of intricate, colorful mailboxes lined the street sides. But one person decided to go the opposite route, and decorate the other side of his mailbox.

Location: Top of Nevada Falls, Yosemite National Park, California
Similar to the Jungfrau, I enjoy this warning atop Nevada Falls in Yosemite because that knee-high railing really isn't doing much to prevent some fool from stumbling into the whitewater and being shot out over Yosemite Valley. That bridge in the distance is over the falls, so disobeying this sign is the last middle finger to authority you'll ever flip, right before you flip into oblivion. The panorama from up here is incredible, though.

  Location: Dachau Concentration Camp, Dachau, Germany
 "Work makes you free" was what prisoners in this notorious Nazi concentration camp saw as the literal gateway to the outside world. Even today, this powerful symbol of blind intolerance stops visitors in their tracks. For more on Dachau, read here http://www.whereverittakestravel.blogspot.com/2012/03/poplars-3101.html

 Location: Docks at Alcatraz Island, San Francisco, California
Infamous Alcatraz was known for many things, mostly its slew of famous prisoners and haunting urban legends. But the welcome sign on the docks remains one of the creepiest moments of a trip to the island. It comes into view when you first step off the boat and reminds you that, although it is now, this was not meant to be a tourist stop by any means. The graffiti scrawled around it is a staunch reminder of the later use of the island, when Native Americans gathered here in protest, making it a commune of sorts for freedom fighters. It's a significant piece of Americana, in a place that still mystifies many Americans.