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Be it ashrams, retreats or a kibbutz, changing your lifestyle for even a weekend can be as refreshing as sipping cocktails on the beach. A break in routine, for spiritual realignment or escape, provides a welcome sort of mental holiday. Leaving behind traffic, cellphones and laptops, I drove a couple of hours outside of Seoul to the Lotus Lantern International Meditation Center , to see if I could find myself. The center offers Zen Buddhist teaching and meditation in a beautiful temple surrounded by forest and farms. It was originally set up for foreigners to discover Buddhism, offering basic but well maintained facilities, including garden pagodas, and a koi pond. I am given a training uniform of grey pants, T-shirt and waistcoat to be worn at all times. The overall atmosphere is one of tranquillity, as if the mere act of raising my voice would violate some unspoken rule. Inside the temple, overlooked by a golden statue of Buddha, a shaved headed Russian monk named Aleksander introduces me to the basic concepts of Buddhism, explaining that enlightenment is the ultimate goal of meditation. He stresses repeatedly that if I feel physically uncomfortable during any of the practices, I should just relax, and if I have any questions, I should just ask. Visitors can choose to stay for the weekend program, an intense week of meditation, or for a longer period of rest. The daily schedule involves chanting, meditation, garden work, walks, calligraphy, and several other options for those who need to keep themselves busy. After washing up, I head to the meditation hall for my first lesson. The trick is to empty your mind, focus on a mantra, becoming aware of how thoughts flow in and out your head. Aleksander tells the group to count to ten repeatedly, aware of any errant thoughts that enter our minds. Large mosquitoes cloud about, raining bites on my bare arms. This could well be the single biggest obstruction to me ever becoming one. Like learning to play piano, meditating takes time and practice. After a few minutes, I give up and spend the next half hour enjoying the silence, the space to breathe. A moktak , a traditional wooden instrument, resonates that the session has ended, and we have some free time before lights out at pm. Thin mattresses and blankets are provided, and mosquito netting mercifully keeps out the bugs while letting in a cool forest breeze. I wake at am to the sound of the moktak , signalling it is time for chanting in the temple. In the glow of candlelight, the monks have gathered to begin chanting. I try and follow with the helpful English guide provided, but prefer to stare at the slightly closed eyes of the golden Buddha, the smiles on the deity statues that surround him, the bright colours painted on the dragons overhead. Prostrating oneself is a form of meditation and a sign of devotion, and Korean Zen Buddhism has prostrations, each to a different chant. Bending down onto your knees, head to the mat, hands turned upwards, stand and repeat — it becomes a strenuous, dizzying physical challenge to keep up with the monks. I notice that sweat is starting to stain the mat where my forehead touches, but together with the rhythmic sound of the moktak and the chanting, the overall effect is almost hypnotic. As with everything else, Aleksander tells us that monks become used to this form of prayer and meditation. Each session it becomes a little easier to focus on my breathing, to see the numbers click over in my imagination. The outside world floats away, save for the clear calls of birds, the buzz of insects. Garden work, cleaning, or simply strolling into the surrounding forest, is also viewed as a form of meditation, mostly done in silent mindfulness. Concluding my overnight stay, I exchange my training uniform for my street clothes, bow my head in thanks to the monks and volunteers. Robin Esrock shares some of his favourite photographs from Brazil, along with his thoughts about why the country is so special. Rhythm permeates Brazil. Sometimes I catch myself listening to traffic, and even it carries a tune. Teenagers listen to the same classic bossa nova songs their parents do. MBP, modern Brazilian pop, incorporates many different genres. Your enthusiasm and willingness to enjoy the rhythm goes a long way. Feast on a sustainably sourced seafood picnic created by chef Rudi Riebenberg of the iconic Belmond Mount Nelson hotel. Solo travelers can book single cabins on the yacht, making the exclusive voyage more accessible than ever before. Originally designed as an Arctic research vessel, the guest Nansen Explorer is specifically equipped for polar waters, with an ice-strengthened hull and a commercially certified heli deck that makes for the ideal launch pad for heli-skiing adventures. We all have that one family member who is devoted to tracing the family lineage. If your family has Irish roots, consider a trip to Ireland complete with a stay at a centuries-old castle and a session with a genealogist. Consider an immersive and educational eco-adventure in Chile. Teens will also work on a sustainability audit of the lodge and visit the local Mapuche people and a traditional ruka Mapuche house. Post-excursion, Hamamoto will take guests to VIDA Lab, the on-site nutritional laboratory and medical kitchen, to demonstrate how to transform these ingredients into nutritious juices, essential oils, and even ice cream. The classic journey is the overnight route to and from London and Venice via Paris, through the Alps and across the Venetian lagoon. A particularly memorable itinerary is the five-night journey between Paris and Istanbul, which is offered just once a year and includes overnight stops in Budapest and Bucharest and daytime halts in Sinaia and Varna for excursions. The next trip will take place September 1, from 17, EUR per person. Also coming up for is the unveiling of eight new suites. Two original s and 30s carriages, accommodating just four suites on each car, will be carefully restored, their design inspired by pastoral European landscapes and featuring plush fabrics and furnishings from renowned brands and makers like Majorelle, Dufrene, Leleu, Rousseau, and Lalique. The suites are portals to the golden day of train travel, with luxuries like private marble ensuite bathrooms and lounging areas that transform into either double or twin beds by night. Additional amenities might include personal hour cabin stewards, complimentary kimonos and slippers, and free-flowing champagne. In which our writer exits a snake pit in search of authentic Mexico …. My airport shuttle scuttles past major brand resorts and a dozen hotels that look exactly like them although one did look tremendously, and somewhat appropriately, phallic. In my airport transfer van are four couples on honeymoon. Using non-existent Spanish, I ask the driver if he knows the weather forecast. This involves me making splashing sounds, blowing wind, and pretending to sunbathe, badly. My fellow passengers do their best to ignore me. No disrespect to the desires of honeymooners, but this month, I came to experience some real Mexico. I want to see the Yucatan, and the real Yucatan is out of Cancun. Besides their astronomy, city-states, and massive stone temples, Mayans also invented a precursor to soccer, basketball, and tennis called Pok-Atok — the sound of a ball against their long, walled ball courts. The captain of the winning team would be sacrificed, a rather strange incentive to compete. They also sacrificed children born on August , once they reached the age of 4 to Happy birthday, now… we rip your heart out! Human sacrifice was viewed by Mayans as an honour, but history points to a large, lowly population working for an elite class of priests who forbade them to look at the stars they had to use mirror pools of water or even to use the wheel. Any visit to the region has to include the other cenotes, found outside the disarmingly charming colonial city of Merida. These cave pools are sparklingly clean, and outrageously fun to swim in. To find them, I take a one-hour bus ride, passing small Mayan villages where heat bakes the earth, and toothy kids play traditional games in the streets. Nobody appears taller than 5ft, and the tallest buildings are bright, white churches. A wooden platform lets visitors dive into the blue water, as deep and bright as if someone has poured in that colour therapy bath stuff you buy at hippy stores. I visit three different cenotes , scaling the walls of each cave as stalactites slowly drip their way from the ceiling. Giant roots from a tree above descend through the limestone, and one cave has a small opening for a 12m plummet into the dark water below. Perfect for thrill-seeking and rock jumping, just mind your cajones! I finally learn the difference between a burrito and an enchilada. Enchiladas are made with corn wraps and burritos with flour wraps. Now you know too. Compared to Chichen Itsa, the jungle ruins of Palenque feel more authentic, a tad more Indiana Jones, a little less Disney. The view of the surrounding jungle from atop Palenque sets it apart. Here I learn more about Mayan rituals and practices, including head flattening, and the Mongolian Spot — a birthmark linking Mayans to Mongolian nomads. Another loud bus ride drops me off in St Cristobal de las Casas, once a volatile Zapatista stronghold, now a leafy, colourful postcard. This is the launch pad to visit the Mayan villages of Chamula and Zinacantan for a fascinating cultural encounter. Where else will you see live chickens sacrificed in a church, or Coca-Cola worshipped along with the Saints? The bizarre evolution and integration of Christianity into Mayan paganism has created a spectacle, to be witnessed respectfully or else shamans will confiscate your cameras. Late night salsa dancing in the bars, taco-gorging in cheap taco-joints — you can drown me in swamps of guacamole and flash-floods of lime-soaked beer, but not in the Rio Grande. One final adventure has me speeding its waters on a boat beneath the 1km high cliffs of the dramatic Sumidero Canyon. I see a large crocodile swimming just 50m upriver from children playing in the river. The cocodrillo is clearly not into Mexican food the way I am. Once upon a time, a Danish writer named Hans Christian Anderson entertained Scandinavian children with fantastic stories. His most popular story however was The Little Mermaid, a story about a mermaid who falls in love with a man. So celebrated was this tale and the tail itself that in , the city of Copenhagen dedicated a small statue to its honour. Sitting just 4ft on an unremarkable rock off the Langelinie promenade, The Little Mermaid has become an icon of the city. This year she turns years old. Although it has been vandalized and restored many times, the statue continues to symbolize the dream of love, and lonely it is to be a fish out of water. Inspired by The Little Mermaid, Vancouver has its own girl perched on a harbour rock. The Girl in the Wetsuit is located on the north side of Stanley Park. But we can travel in our imaginations, and certainly through the pages of some of my favourite all-time travel books. I confess my library is not nearly the wealth of knowledge it should be, but hopefully this will inspire just the start of your journey into the world of travel literature. Anyone who has ever clutched a Lonely Planet will wet themselves visiting the fictitious eastern European country of Molvania. India is such an immense place, bursting with stories and sagas that define the human condition. There is a vast cannon of fantastic Indian literature, but my three favourite books are these above, drowning in characters that tunnel into your mind and heart. All epic in scope, by the time you put down these pages you will have transported your senses into the sub-continent, taste its spice on your tongue, smell the stenches in your nostrils. Heil paints a stark mountain that seduces characters from around the world — seeking adventure, but receiving more than they bargained for. As more climbers continue to challenge Everest every year, gripping books like this bring us along for the journey, thankfully removed from the frostbite, avalanches, and dirty mountain politics. An English backpacker Americanized for the movie gets swept up in the search for the last untouched paradise island, a backpacker utopia, hidden from the masses. Inspired by the islands in the Philippines, it has the fun edge of a thriller, while tapping into our desire to leave the beaten path, and go wherever the adventure leads us. Alex Garland has moved on and is now an accomplished film director, behind the thought-provoking sci-fi hits Ex Machina, Sunshine and Annihilation. Across the road from me lived Rick Antonson, formerly the CEO of Tourism Vancouver, but these days a very well travelled and accomplished travel writer. Trust a travel writer to make learning about biology, geography, astronomy and other sciences accessible, engaging, and full of quirky characters. Reading about his adventures, following his interviews and thorough research, it fired me up to want to visit South America and Ethiopia. Myself very much included. Sapiens — Yuval Noah Harari A monster non-fiction hit, an Israeli professor unpacks the history of humanity with a striking clarity of thought, explaining big history and bigger concepts in a clear, concise and jarringly direct fashion all the more remarkable since Harari is writing in his second language. If aliens land in the distant future and find this book buried in the ashes of what was once our civilization, it will likely explain everything. His follow up books, Homo Deux and 21 Lessons for the 21st Century are excellent reads too. The Silk Road makes it onto this list because it explains how geo-politics plays the long game, putting our current and brief time on Earth in a bigger context. Trade is being re-organized and powers are waxing and waning. But it all has its routes on an ancient trade route that led to the birth and explosion of civilization as we know it. A terrific read. Writing first person with a breezy wit and insatiable curiosity something I can truly appreciate , Mary has tackled some fascinating topics with her various books, including Bonk sex , Stiff human cadavers , Grunt war and Spook the afterlife. Mary interviews experts and characters, digs deep into space poo and practicalities, and should be required reading for anyone with their head in the stars. With his unique approach to language, sharp wit, profound wisdom, and devotion to not taking things too seriously, Robbins is one of my favourite writers. His books usually follow a similar template: a brave usually sexy soul heads into the world to discover about life, the universe and anything, with aid from thinly disguised gurus, gods, and in some cases, inanimate objects. Creativity bursts from his pages, the turns of phrase stop you in your literal tracks. Wherever I find myself, reading and re-reading a Robbins novels inspires me to read more, write more, and most importantly, live more. Writing any book is no easy task. I salute the efforts of anyone who strives to write about exciting new worlds, and to all those that choose to read their hard-spun efforts. I include them here without any bias whatsoever. Maybe a little. Europe can get pretty crowded in summer, especially that Europe. You know, the Europe that is getting tons of heat because of record-breaking heat waves, and record-breaking tourism. Crowds jamming into Paris and Dubrovnik and Venice and Barcelona leading to hot-topic debates about overtourism and the impact of people travelling the world, ticking off their bucket lists. But not all Europe gets overly crowded. Places that are a lot less crowded, often a lot cheaper, but just as accessible. Image by Michelle Maria from Pixabay. Bergen, Norway. A city located in the south of Norway, Bergen has a thriving arts, music and cultural scene. Medieval churches and buildings abound, and with its narrow streets and alleyways the city still has a small-town atmosphere. Students and locals fill the cafes, bars and coffee shops, especially in the summer months. There are direct flights from London, Amsterdam, Stockholm and Copenhagen. Image by Pablo Valerio from Pixabay. This city in southern Spain is one of the oldest in all Europe, with a history stretching back years. The Old Town is located all within blocks of the coastline, and is packed with people and connecting plazas, the most beautiful being the 19 th century Plaza de Mina. Besides old churches, watchtowers and even a Roman theatre, Cadiz also has some gorgeous beaches. La Playa de la Caleta is amongst the most popular, located in the Old Town between two old castles. With its prominent boulevard, you might mistake it for the malecon in Havana. In fact, the two cities share much in common, and Cadiz has even doubled for Havana in the movies. Image by Carina Chen from Pixabay. Galway, Ireland. This is one of the reasons it is known as being the most Irish of all cities. With two large universities, student as well as Irish culture spills onto the streets, parks and markets. There are some striking old churches, most notably the Galway Cathedral and Church of St Nicholas, and several old castles, towers and homesteads in the vicinity. Image by randyjournalism from Pixabay. Cluj Napoca, Romania. The unofficial capital of Transylvania and 4 th largest city in Romania, the history of Cluj Napoca dates back to the 2 nd century AD. Cluj, along with Transylvania itself, has historically been caught between Romanian and Hungarian cultures, and both cultures are prevalent. Besides a strong art and performance scene, Cluj has a rocking nightlife and live music scene, enjoyed by the largest student population in the country. One smoky bar I visited had the kind of art and avant-garde music that reminded me of New York. Image by from Pixabay. Tallinn, Estonia. Image by Martin Lazarov from Pixabay. Sofia, Bulgaria. The Bulgarian capital is another city that bears evidence of millennia old history mixed with Communist-era functionality. Most of its iconic attractions can be discovered on foot, radiating out from the central traffic hub towards the inner ring road. The city also is also close to a fully developed ski resort on Vitosha Mountain, which provides a striking backdrop to the city, and is popular with hikers and mountain bikers in the summer months. Image by O12 from Pixabay. The castle complex consists of 40 buildings and palaces, with beautiful gardens, courtyards and a moat. Gothic, Baroque and Renaissance architecture line the streets of the town, which feature museums, galleries and bars serving that famous Czech beer. Image by falco from Pixabay. Tbilisi, Georgia. The capital of Georgia is much like the country itself: off-the-beaten-track, fascinating, and exceptionally welcoming. The Old City has been restored and is lined with funky bars and restaurants. Georgian cuisine is something to experience — hot cheese breads, eggplant, meats, herb salads, and plenty of homemade wine to wash it down with. Overlooking the city is the medieval Narikala Fortress, which has a great view of the city and adjacent Mtkvari River. Image by traveldudes from Pixabay. Ljubljana, Slovenia. Little Slovenia is an undiscovered gem in Central Europe, and its capital city of Ljubljana is one of the smallest capital cities on the continent. Ljubljana is quintessentially European — cobblestones, churches, squares, canals, outdoor cafes, parks, bicycle lanes — with a tiny dash of an alternative art scene, and thousands of well dressed students. The Old Town is well preserved and a great place to explore local artisans. Check out the Dragon Bridge, and the views from Ljubljana Castle. Rent a bike and enjoy the ample bike lanes and parks. Skopje, North Macedonia. Skopje is the capital and heart of the little known and newly christened Republic of North Macedonia. Prized for its strategic location by empires throughout the ages, the city was all but destroyed by a massive earthquake in , and feels like it has never stopped rebuilding. There is still a strong legacy of Communist-style concrete buildings, but also medieval fortresses, bridges and churches. The Old Town is a blend of East and West, featuring churches, mosques, Turkish baths, and a vibrant market that dates back to the 15h century. There are also various statues and museums dedicated to Mother Theresa, who was born in the city. Eight hundred thousand people live in the Latvian capital of Riga, and just about all of them dress like rock stars. If the locals look good, the buildings do too. Riga is the capital of Art Nouveau, the 18th century art and architecture movement that aspired to break rules. Although much was damaged during World War II, today the city has the largest collection of Art Nouveau buildings anywhere. Until I saw it. What possesses a Victorian-era aristocrat to design a building with such unusual vision, laden with science-fiction motifs amongst archways and sculptures time-warped in from the future? What made him sculpt the large heads of a King and Queen, staring into opposite corners, sitting above the building as if it were merely a chess piece? And who, in their right mind, would pony up the cash for this grand, far-fetched creative endeavour? On Albert Street, admiring the attention to detail caused my neck to ache, staring at the sphinxes, naked muses, or even faces screaming in agony. With the right lighting, Albert Street would be a perfect set for Lord of the Rings, Star Wars, Metropolis and Batman — at the same time, without changing any of the facades. Some are crumbling with time; some are magnificently restored including the Irish, French and Russian Embassies. Building-watching provides a good morning out, only slightly eclipsed by that other passion of mine — people watching. For well over a century, the Riga Circus has been housed in a somewhat decrepit old building permeated with a century of laughter, acrobatics, and animal tricks. The only way I could find out if Riga Circus fits into this category was to go and see it. A highlight was meeting Aleksandrs Slaugotnis, a legendary Russian clown who has been wearing face paint for 37 years. He was trained by Oleg Popov, which in Clown World is the equivalent of saying you were trained by Michelangelo. A man in full Arabian prince regalia walks past, together with a breathtaking blonde woman in a matching pink outfit. The King and Queen of the Carnival are a regal sight to behold. Soon enough, the ringmaster announces the performance, and a sizeable crowd has gathered, mostly local kids with their parents. Together we laugh and yell and ooh and aah , eat peanut crepes and stare at mammoth hairy camels. Despite the age of the circus, the dogs, llamas, camels and monkeys glow with health and enthusiasm, and the two-hour show is awash in laughs and thrills. Aleksandrs is particularly a hit, as deft with slapstick as he is on a tightrope. High-pitched blonde kids scream in approval. These seven sites were so utterly wonderful that humanity has since gone on to destroy all of them save one, the Pyramids of Giza — only because nobody could figure out what to do with two million 80 ton blocks. While Herodotus traded on his historian credentials, Bernard was armed with online marketing savvy and contacts within the tourism industry. The decision as to what these new wonders would be rested with the mouse-click of the masses, and a quasi-regulated online vote. Chichen Itsa. The Maya were a clever lot who designed intricate jungle pyramids for calendars, ancient cosmic ball courts, and other sites of magic at this must-see in the Yucatan. I did however pick up a free wireless signal just outside the mandatory gift shop, which may explain why Chichen Itsa, and not Tikal in Guatemala, gathered enough online votes to be included as a new Wonder of the World. Great Wall of China. Most tourists in Beijing visit a nearby carefully manicured chunk of wall, struggling to take a photo clear of domestic package tours. I joined a more adventurous lot to drive three hours outside of the city, barely escaping the choking pollution, to a section known as Jinshangling. Legend has it over one million people died building the wall, with bodies mixed into cement or buried in the wall itself. Chris the Redeemer. This 40m cement statue must have been a sour pickle for Bernard to swallow. On the other, there is no hot-damn way it belongs anywhere near this list. Having lost my camera a few days prior, I recall the sparkling view of Rio, the swishing acai shake in my gut, and the niggling doubt that I should have ditched Cocovaro Mountain for Sugarloaf Mountain instead. As much as I love Brazil, and Rio in particular, putting this statue in the company of ancient feats of mysterious genius is kind of like listing Turkmenistan as a global centre of finance. The Coliseum. By the time we arrived in Italy, I was stewed in beer, pickled in vodka, and under the complete influence of some older Australian blokes who could drink a horse under the stable. I remember, vaguely, stealing hotel towels for a toga party, and also getting slightly jealous when smooth Italian boys on Vespas made advances on the too-few girls on our tour. When we visited the Colosseum, built between 70AD and 80AD and once capable of seating some 50, people, I was hungover, drunk, or possibly both. There was a lot of scaffolding at the time, a curse one should expect when visiting ancient landmarks. The Colosseum was used for over years as the venue for gladiator battles, circuses and all manner of public spectacles. Including teenage tourists incapable of holding their liquor. Machu Picchu. Porters, their legs ripped of steel, carry all the supplies, cook up delicious meals, even pitch your tent. My group, aged 18 — 57, displayed inspiring camaraderie, led by two upbeat Peruvian guides, all the while looking forward to that moment, when you cross Sun Gate, and see Machu Picchu lit up in the morning sun. Few moments are quite like it, even when the buses pull up. The Taj Mahal. A marble structure of such physical perfection and detail it could only have been constructed from the heart. I had one day left in Delhi before flying to Bangkok, so decided to take a quick trip to Agra to see the Taj. Taking a quick trip anywhere in India is laughably optimistic. Finally on the right train, leaving at the wrong time, I arrived in Agra at the mercy of taxi drivers licking their lips like hungry hyenas. To the Taj, only a few hours to spare, but the line-up stretched half a mile. Then the security guard confiscates the tiny calculator in my daypack, for no reason neither he nor I can discern. Finally I get in, through the gate, just in time to watch the sun light up the Taj Mahal like a neon sign in an Indian restaurant. I take several dozen photos, from every angle possible. One day visiting the Taj Mahal symbolized my entire month in India, a wonder unto itself. Giza, Cairo. Actually, since the Pyramids were part of the last list, Bernard figured they were exempted from this list. This tells you all you need to know about the scientific legitimacy of this poll. In the end, the New Seven Wonders promotion was a harmless marketing exercise, so long as we appreciate the amazing work organizations like UNESCO do to restore and preserve our greatest achievements. When it comes to social gatherings in foreign countries, think hash. Not the potatoes you have with your eggs, nor sticky illegal marijuana resin. Hash House Harriers or H3 might sound like an alliterative joke, but it is a genuine social phenomenon. With nearly groups operating in just about every major city worldwide, including Hong Kong, Hashers come together to run, drink, and be merry. Forget vampire museums, it was time to see the city, make some friends, and earn the name that will be with me for life. Using paper, chalk, or in our case flour, the hare marks the trail with a series of dots, splits, circles, red herrings and checks, to make it challenging for the pack to find their way home. Winning the race is inconsequential, for the real purpose of Hashing is for people to gather, talk, drink, run, and have some fun. Crash Test Dummy, an English engineer who has lived in Bucharest for two years, is the Religious Advisor, charged with blessing the circle. Materhorny, who works in the Swiss Embassy, is the Cash Hash and in charge of financial affairs. Two things are immediately obvious: Hashers are defined by a bawdy schoolyard sense of humour, and are mostly made up of members of the expat community. In this, little has changed from its roots when the first Hashers formed over 70 years ago. The first Hash took place in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in , as a casual exercise for British office workers to run out their weekend hangovers. Following a paper trail that would inevitably lead to a pub, the group became popular enough to register as a society, the name arguably chosen to reflect the seriousness of its intention. Today, there are family hash events, gender-specific events, large gatherings like the Eurohash or Interhash, even a club in Antarctica. With no central leadership, no membership requirements, and no chance of taking itself seriously, Hashing pre-dates online social networking as a means to instantly make friends and get contacts in a foreign country. The circle meet in a downtown Bucharest park, where introductions were made, and basic pointers explained. Using a tennis ball dipped in flour, the Hare had marked a trail through the embassy neighbourhood. Together the pack would chase down these dots, like a game of Pacman, until we reach a circle and have to fan out to find the next trail. A circle indicates a change in direction, an X a false trail. It is a warm, humid late afternoon, and the race is on. Gutentight blows his horn, and locals look on curiously, bemused at an eclectic, eccentric group running about shouting and laughing. Congregating outside a neighbourhood shop, we crack open cold beers, and discuss the course, dirty jokes, Hash war stories from clubs near and far. I learn that drinking violations come in the form of quirks, like running with new shoes, or pointing with fingers. Each club makes up their own rules, careful to reiterate that of course, there are no rules. Around the bend I notice we have been led in a circle, the dust of the environmentally friendly flour pulling us through the streets. Hashes typically take place in forests, parks, streets, wherever the Hare chooses, and the length of the course, and number of beer checks, can vary. Finally, we arrive back at the park, where the Grandmaster forms everyone in a circle to cool down, and congratulate the Hare for his efforts. A round of drinks are consumed. The Virgins are called into the circle, handed a cup of beer, and roasted like celebrities. We are given the choice between a joke, a song, or flashing a body part. It typically takes a Virgin five races before they are named, but in a stroke of journalistic exuberance, I had let the hare out of the bag. As I do so, my fellow Hashers pour their beer over my head, and douse me in flour. With the ceremony over and with more beers to consume, the group heads over to a pub where an evening of hysterical Hash songs ensues. Hash hymns are loyally kept in tattered books, and most are crude, rude, and easy to remember. I make the mistake of removing a shoe under the table, another drinking violation. I slurp the heel and the next dirty limerick starts up. These are professionals, young and old, singles and couples, indulging in the time honoured tradition of socializing, over good exercise, gamesmanship, beer and food. Most are foreign to these Romanian shores, finding support, advice and friendship in the process. If you need to know where to buy a car, which bank to use, how things work, everyone here has been in the same boat, and wants to help. Most Hash House clubs have their own websites, detailing upcoming hashes, and contact details. All you need to do is show up to join in the fun. Over half a million people pour into Edinburgh, and it appeared almost all of them had prior reservations. Arriving on an atypically sunny day, I am swallowed by a crowd that never seems to dissipate. Fortunately I had met a group of student volunteers on the train from London who gave me free tickets to several shows, sending me in the direction of Princess Street. Picnic blankets litter the adjacent park, all the way to the rocky hill of the imposing Edinburgh Castle. Actors, or friends of actors, are dishing out handbills everywhere, urging the merits of their show as opposed to the hundreds of others competing for your attention. Due to the to sheer volume of handbills, they cover the streets like confetti. Bagpipes blast from authentic Braveheart-clad buskers complete with blue face-paint, safe from street vents a la Marilyn Monroe. I walk up everything is up or down in the old city to High Street, which is in itself one big theatre. Every year, street buskers come from around the world to juggle, eat fire, or turn themselves into human kebabs. Some of the directors are in the room to speak about their work, and it is this opportunity to connect with creators that makes any arts festival so worthwhile. I buy a ticket to show whose name had come up a few times, and although critically acclaimed, it left me colder than the pint I followed it with. Walking back towards High Street, I bump into an old friend who is promoting an award-winning play, cheerfully giving me a pass to what became one of the highlights of the festival. Especially when one can fortuitously bump into folks like the train volunteers I had met earlier, who offered a welcome wooden floor for the night. No complaints whatsoever, with the bonus of receiving an authentic Scottish welcome, meeting the locals, and all the other stuff guidebooks swear are essential for any legitimate travel experience. The next morning, my creaking bones catch a bus to the Modern Art Galley, which seems like a very cultural thing to do. A Surrealism Exhibition features dozens of masterful Magrittes, painting the perfect warped landscape for the rest of my day. By the time I get to Edinburgh castle, it is shrouded in mist. I explore the grounds, accidentally wandering into a play taking place in a closet, and soak up the history with a few drams of Scotch. Tickets to shows range from cheap to expensive, and for the most part, it seems that you get what you pay for. Still, talent has to start somewhere, and they can be encouraged that the homeless, the lost and the crazy will be there to support them. I found myself at a South African show featuring township jive mixed with techno. A transvestite performer crashes the party, screaming about her show that everyone must attend. Security quickly escorts her out. By three in the morning, the bar has emptied and only then do I realize I have no idea how to find the volunteers who gave me a floor last night. It would have been smart to got a phone number, but thinking ahead never entered my Edinburgh equation. Wet, broke, hungry and hung-over, but chock full of culture. My train was due to depart that evening, and despite the lack of sleep, I manage to catch a fantastic show by a troupe of French mimes, answering the age-old question: If you shoot a mime, do you use a silencer? And should you wind up scunnered on a bonnie park bench, remember to keep ya heid. While tanned sunbathers soak up the sun on the infamous beaches of Ipanema and Cocacabana, the other side of Rio de Janeiro rises up into the surrounding mountains. Drug violence and poor social conditions inside have been likened to an urban civil war. With the introduction of walking tours designed to expose tourists to this world, an increasing amount of visitors are heading into the slums, entering high crime zones where few locals would dare to tread. Some argue that these tours have merely created a human zoo. Others feel it is essential to truly appreciate the city. To figure out who is exploiting whom, I decided to go see for myself. A row of moto-taxis greet us at the bottom of the hill. Rocinha, the biggest of all favelas, is also considered the largest and most infamous slum in Latin America. Narrow alleyways and open sewers separate square-shaped cement living quarters. Painted or plain, they are jammed atop one another, sprawling up the hill like a house of cards. Be-a-Local has been offering favela tours for six years, and is the only company that offers walking tours through the alleys of Rocinha. Other tour companies prefer the safety and ease of a minibus. Each member of my group, made up of mostly budget travellers, gets on the back of a motorcycle, which promptly speeds off into chaotic traffic up the main road. We are all unaccustomed to the speed, traffic, or riding without helmets. Five exhilarating minutes later, we are deposited at the top of the hill, and our guide Marcio tells us the basic rules. We do not need to be reminded. While favelas are largely a no-go zone for both tourists and locals, these group tours are deemed completely safe, operating under the protection and one would assume with the blessings of the ruling drug lords. We cross the main road, the artery that feeds Rocinha, and slip single file into the alleys. The further the living quarters are located from the road, the cheaper they are to buy or rent. Hole-in-the-wall shops offer groceries, hair salons, Internet, and pharmacies. With an estimated , people, everything the local population needs is catered for by enterprising tenants. I hear a firework, a sudden explosion that makes me jump. Young children set these off to warn drug dealers if any police or outsiders are approaching, an entry-level task for children entering the violent, bullet-riddled world of the favela. But amongst the drugs and crime, there are also hardworking honest citizens, living the best they can, sending their children to one of four schools. Huge knots of wires hang above us, the power largely hijacked by makeshift electrical engineers. Although Rocinha has open sewers, the community has its own garbage control, postal system, and governing authority. People flash their famous Brazilian smiles. When I told local friends in Rio I would visit Rocinha, they could not understand why. Favelas are associated with danger, not with tourists. We visit a local artist, who sells some paintings to an American in our group. Backpackers are not the only ones interested in favela tours. Anything that brings people together, across the income or cultural gap, can only be a good thing. A monk at the Lotus Lantern International Meditation Center: Photo — Robin Esrock Be it ashrams, retreats or a kibbutz, changing your lifestyle for even a weekend can be as refreshing as sipping cocktails on the beach. Jungle safaris have brought me up close and personal with piranhas, anacondas, and this weary caiman. The country was tossed and torn in battles between the Spanish, Dutch, British, and Portuguese, who give the country its language. In the northeast cities of Recife and Salvador pictured , blackened churches and buildings recall a turbulent time of plantations, wars, religion, wealth, and slavery. With nearly km of coastline and glorious tropical weather, Brazilians have every reason to love their beaches. Cabo Frio has the squeaky white sand of the Caribbean. My favourite is Lopez Mendes, a slice of paradise on the island of Ilha Grande. Carnaval brings Brazilians together across the socio-economic divide, especially after the chaos and restrictions of the pandemic. Believe the hype. There are plenty of places you can climb, or raft, or even fish for piranhas. Capoeira at sunset? Favela funk parties? One of my favourite discoveries has been Rio do Plata outside of the eco-tourism hotspot of Bonito. Float with the current for three hours down a crystal clear stream, snorkelling amongst thousands of freshwater fish. Simply Braziliant! The actual religion is football. The country has won the World Cup a record five times. The game is played and followed on the beaches and streets, in clubs and parks. A visit to Maracana Stadium in Rio, which holds the official record for a single game attendance , people at the World Cup Final will convert you way before the final whistle blows. But Brazilians got behind the vote and today it is semi-officially regarded as a wonder of our world. FOOD Caju? Brazil is blessed with natural tropical fruit rich in vitamins and taste. People here have long enjoyed the nutritional benefits of acai, even as it becomes a wonder berry in hipster cafes worldwide. Each diner receives a card. The green side means more, the red side means stop. Waiters attack with different cuts of meat until you burst. Staples like beans, rice and farofa manioc flour accompany most dishes. Cheap eats like bolinhos de bacalhau fish and potato balls and coxinha de galinha chicken and potato balls offer deep fried perfection. Finally we can put on shorts or that summer dress, feel a warm breeze on our legs, and appreciate that the best time of year has arrived. On that day, we walk around smiling, easily relaxed, infused with positive energy. In Brazil I have observed locals of all classes, watching crowds on beaches and buses, in malls, restaurants, the slums and on the streets. Many of them have that same twinkle in their eye, an uplifting smile on their face. Pok-Atok: a precursor to basketball, with less bounce and more human sacrifice Human sacrifice was viewed by Mayans as an honour, but history points to a large, lowly population working for an elite class of priests who forbade them to look at the stars they had to use mirror pools of water or even to use the wheel. The ruins of Palenque Late night salsa dancing in the bars, taco-gorging in cheap taco-joints — you can drown me in swamps of guacamole and flash-floods of lime-soaked beer, but not in the Rio Grande. Image by Pablo Valerio from Pixabay Cadiz, Spain This city in southern Spain is one of the oldest in all Europe, with a history stretching back years. Image by Martin Lazarov from Pixabay Sofia, Bulgaria The Bulgarian capital is another city that bears evidence of millennia old history mixed with Communist-era functionality. Image by falco from Pixabay Tbilisi, Georgia The capital of Georgia is much like the country itself: off-the-beaten-track, fascinating, and exceptionally welcoming. Image by traveldudes from Pixabay Ljubljana, Slovenia Little Slovenia is an undiscovered gem in Central Europe, and its capital city of Ljubljana is one of the smallest capital cities on the continent. Chris the Redeemer Christ the Redeemer This 40m cement statue must have been a sour pickle for Bernard to swallow. Giza, Cairo Actually, since the Pyramids were part of the last list, Bernard figured they were exempted from this list. Older posts. Contact Info info globalbucketlist. Search for:.

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