A Travel Vignette: Èze
I board a train south and find myself on top of the world.
The mountain village of Èze shimmers in the distance, with cobblestone passages bookmarked by clinging jasmine and stately cacti that hover over the Mediterranean. Carved into the cliffside, La Chèvre d’Or dances discreetly, a tango of hidden gardens and reading nooks and cold plunge pools to linger in for hours. We taste regional favorites like caramelized onion pissaladiere and Swiss chard-stuffed barbajuan and sip St. Germain spritzes heady with mint. Even the air, warm and perfumed with an encyclopedia of flora, tastes different from such great heights. 
|
|
A Travel Vignette: Mexico City
The smell of corn and canela fills a CDMX morning as shopkeepers roll down their awnings and drag sturdy cane chairs onto the dusty sidewalk.
It is the city of asadas and ancient mansions, where brutalist architecture juts out over the prickly agave and dogs bark at your feet in greeting. The days are filled with long strolls down tree-lined promenades and shared plates of delicate tamales dressed in smoke-scented cream. I roll my R's with abandon and drink too much mezcal. When in Roma (Norte). 
|
|
A Travel Vignette: New Orleans
In NOLA, the history of settlers past seeps through the ornate ironwork, twisting across the landscape and into the shadowy pockets of respite from the heat.
The octopus ferns over Little Palermo, the French sitting rooms of the lower garden district or the Spanish mahogany curving around a noble staircase. By lunchtime the waiters at Cafe du Monde are already weary, and cocktail conversation - like the bells of St. Louis Cathedral - rings across the old quarter. 
|
|
A Travel Vignette: Vienna
Somewhere a violin plays in Vienna. It streaks through the biting wind and sings an urgent tune across gilded rooftops and windows dressed in damask silk.
We eat baguette sandwiches slathered in brie and walnut butter, briny potatoes drizzled with pumpkin seed oil. At this time of year, the wine is hot and the waiters blurt out rough and tumble greetings of warmth and weariness, moving faster as the temperature drops and the muted sun sets. I sigh deeply at the marble columns and Sacher torte, floating on a cloud of dark as night chocolate and chantilly cream. At any moment, Falco was going to walk through the parlor doors, I just knew it. 
|
|
A Travel Vignette: New York
In the morning I take my croissant from a West Village window. A trail of featherweight bird crumbs float down 10th street as I sink into its shell.
The browns of the still barren trees, the warmth of steamed cinnamon and ginger milk in a downstairs cafe. It is the tactile season, texture like sun. I sit on a park bench as it hums to the will of passing trains from somewhere down below; a humble subway song to accompany the afternoon light. |
|
A Travel Vignette: Lisbon
In the city of seven hills, every steep passageway is a meeting of wills, the worn and smooth stones coaxing you forward even as your cheeks burn brightly in protest. I steady myself against the intricate tile work and jut my chin towards the clear sky.
The soothing lilt of the Lisboans floats past as we ascend and descend, sampling custard in the Chiada, sipping briny wine in Principe Real. We eat cabbage braised in spice and sponge cake layered with cinnamon and almonds until our legs agree to take us home. By day's end I am as salty as bacalhau and as satisfied as the sun that sets across this gentle town. 
|
|
A Travel Vignette: Antigua
|
|
|
The sun comes up on a colonial town, and in the distance trucks amble through the cobblestone streets as the bells cry out good morning.
To market to market, where bustling stalls showcase silken mangoes and creamy zapotes and tangy caimitos, too. The rainbow setting spills out and onto the streets, where sawdust tapestries of fuchsia and gold line the narrow streets of Antigua, leading the way to salvation. The Mayans, whispering cosmic secrets in the town square, have made time stand still for us all. |
|
A Travel Vignette: Paris
A warm croissant greeted our return to the old city, its shell as crisp and inviting as the autumn Parisian air.
It is Gamay season in France, and our days and nights are filled with Art Nouveau and Beaujolais Nouveau as we slip into ancient bistros and bouillons searching for the next fresh bottle. Murals of delicate flora set the stage for leeks vinaigrette and oeufs mayonnaise and peppery endives drenched in cream and nutmeg. The familiar smell of the city - must and butter and stale cigarettes - brings me an inexplicable comfort that softens my step even as it quickens my pulse. 
|
|