I’m not just being lazy with my post title here; they really do say hallo, and it’s a mercy because every other German word is beyond me. But language struggles aside, we’ve been here two days, and I’m a little obsessed with Berlin.
I was definitely ready to leave Prague. It has its highlights (sign up for my newsletter if you want more on this and some helpful tips for visits there), but I don’t think there’s enough to fill a month. A few Roamers were grateful for this, appreciating a more leisurely pace after months of travel. Perhaps it’s because it was only my second month, perhaps it’s because I hail from New York, but I was not into the activity shortage.
Berlin feels like the opposite of Prague: not nearly as pretty to look at but bursting at the seams with things to do. I spent several hours today just reading guides and organizing my calendar.
I’m in the neighborhood of Neukolln (Noy-colin, roughly). Part of it is known as Little Istanbul, and on some streets, you can feel the Turkish influence. But it’s also been gentrified over the last several years, and the hipsters have put their stamp on it. The intersection my apartment sits on has a bar on one corner, coffee shops on two corners, and a teeny cinema on the fourth corner.
If you turn left down that intersecting street, it’s just a line of adorable restaurants, bars, and cafes, with a couple tattoo parlors for good measure. My first night here I had delicious Basque tapas (yes, I miss Barcelona!) and then I went on a lovely date in a little bar where the back room had no wired lighting and was instead illuminated entirely by candles. They had tall tapers in traditional holders, and the server would replace them as they burned down, in addition to delivering your drinks.
Probably my three favorite things in life are books, food, and movies, and Berlin is overflowing with all three. There are at least ten bookstores just in my neighborhood, and our coworking space for the month, St. Oberholz, is also a boutique publisher. There are a dozen Michelin-starred restaurants in the city and so many more bits of yumminess beyond that; I would recommend every restaurant I’ve eaten at so far. And in the summer, the city is filled with open air cinemas, many of which show movies in English or in their original German with English subtitles.
I’m also basking in the freedom I feel here. It’s no secret that I’ve had a tough time adjusting from living on my own and working at home to being frequently surrounded by dozens of people. Berlin is a sprawling city, and we’re very spread out here. My closest neighbor is a 10 minute walk, and we have access to multiple coworking spaces. I can see the group as much as I want, but I don’t feel the same pressure to that I have in the previous months. It feels more like the best possible version of my regular life.
I’m really excited to explore this month. Hope you’re excited to come along for the journey. If you have any Berlin tips, let me know!
As you might suspect from my blog name, solo trips are necessary food for my soul. I’d been feeling particularly run down after the first six weeks of my global adventure, so I was eager to run to the lakes and have quiet time with my Kindle and some pasta.
This was my first time in Lugano, and if you’re unfamiliar (as I was), it’s a little town that’s just barely in Switzerland, a breath away from the Italian border. Only the currency is Swiss, really–they speak Italian, the food is Italian…though that famed Swiss efficiency does appear as well. It’s beautiful, especially when viewed from the water:
I flew into Milan and took a very easy and cheap (20 euro) hourlong minibus ride with Jetbus, straight from Malpensa Airport to the Lugano train station.
I arrived on a Sunday afternoon, so most of the shops were closed, but I dropped my bags at the Hotel International au Lac, strolled through town, and settled into a lounge chair at Mojito Tropical Lounge, a lakeside outdoor bar that’s crowded at 6 pm and spilling over at 10 (or 18 and 22, if you will).
To be honest, though, I only know it’s spilling over at 10 from walking by on my way home–if you’re reading this post expecting scandalous tales and late-night adventures, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. This was a recovery trip for me, so it was straight to bed after dinner and no alarm clock.
Dinner was delicious, though–I encountered a dish I haven’t seen before, which always excites me, a matcha tea pasta with a bell pepper and yellow tomato coulis at La Cucina di Alice. I followed it (unnecessarily, but when on vacation) with a tasty veal stew and creamy blancmange, then rolled myself back to the hotel.
On Monday, with a rental stand just across the street tempting me, I decided to hire a boat. Everyone I’ve told this to has been shocked: you just RENTED a BOAT…BY YOURSELF? I was a little nervous truthfully. I haven’t driven a boat since I was a teenager, and I barely drive a car anymore since I moved to New York. But I needn’t have worried. Without a boat license, I got the Barbie Jeep of speedboats; I pushed the throttle up, expecting it to roar, and instead I putt-putted across the lake.
But it was delightful to be out on the water. I cruised (inched) past the Swiss-Italian border, saw a few more little towns from the water, took a dip in the lake–the deepest lake in Switzerland, if you’re into fun facts–and enjoyed the lunch I picked up from the grocery store. The views were even more stunning on the water than the shore.
After a brief rest, I headed to dinner at Grotto della Salute. I decided to eat outside the center of town, and while Lugano has a very easy-to-use bus system, I didn’t check the times, and as it turns out, the bus I needed ran only every half hour in the evening. Then I didn’t realize that I had to request the stop (buses in Prague automatically make every stop), so I had a bit more of a hike than I’d anticipated.
The restaurant was none too pleased when I showed up 25 minutes late for my reservation, but I eventually got a table outside under the massive tree that shades their terrace and had a wonderful meal of lemon and pecorino cappellaci (similar to ravioli) and iberico pork tagliata. The restaurant had a very local vibe–patrons tooled up on their scooters, the people at the table next to me had their large dog sitting under the table, and the menu was in Italian and German. I honestly love when there’s no English option.
On Tuesday, I considered my options: I could take the funicular to the top of Monte Bre. But it was a hot day for a hike, and after just two months of travel, I’m already growing weary of climbing to the top of things to look at the view. I could go to the museum next door, LAC. When I previewed the exhibitions, though, there wasn’t anything I was longing to see. In the end, I decided to indulge myself and do what I actually wanted: lounge by the lovely garden pool. Again…vacation!
I left early for dinner so I could stroll slowly through the park on the way. And I’m glad I did; it was the perfect final view of Lugano.
I’d saved the best for last with dinner: Arte al Lago, a one-star Michelin restaurant that sits right on the lake. I had the four-course menu, which was very well-executed–my favorite course was a cucumber and watermelon gazpacho with a spicy mint sherbet. But the setting really made the meal for me. When I got there, the shades were closed, and I watched the light play across the sculpture on the wall. Then, when the sun had dimmed enough, they raised the shades, and I watched the day fade as birds and boats skimmed across the water.
My days in Lugano were perfectly pleasant. The town won’t knock you over with charm; it tends towards luxury brand stores instead of boutiques, and the streets have only a little of that winsome wind. But there were very few Americans in June, which I consider a huge plus; I only heard two or three people speaking English. Add to that a shimmering lake and appetizing cuisine, and Lugano is well worth a visit.
Cesky Krumlov doesn’t sound like the name of a picturesque old town, but excepting the title, it’s adorable. A preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site, it’s similar to Bruges in its bite-sized quaintness.
All the guides say that it’s less crowded in the evening, after the day trippers leave (very true), so I made a night of it last weekend, taking a RegioJet bus down from Prague on Sunday afternoon and returning Monday evening. The ride is a bit long for a day, at three hours, but the bus was surprisingly comfortable for 7 euros each way, with leather seats, drinks for purchase, and an on-board restroom.
The bus stop is set just outside of the city center, and to walk into town, you climb up a short, forested hill. At the top is the first view of Cesky Krumlov, and from that initial moment, the city did not disappoint.
The town is similar to Prague, with its red-tiled roofs, a castle at the focus of every vista, and the Vltava River winding through. But I find it sweeter in miniature, and I love the vibrant colors of the castle and church spires.
I got to town around 6 pm, with just enough time to check into the hotel and walk around a bit before dinner at Papa’s Living Restaurant, where I had a table by the river and finally got the sizzling beef tagliata I’ve been trying and failing to order for the last six weeks. (Groups! One of the joys of solo travel for me is getting exactly what I want–there’s no one with whom you have to negotiate or compromise.) It was as good as I’d imagined.
I spent the evening at the theatre–the revolving theatre, to be precise. It’s a bit hard to describe, but let me try. The theatre is open air, in the gardens of the castle. It’s a large disc, essentially (see photo below), so the audience is seated all on one side. The entire contraption, the theatre in which the audience sits, can rotate 360 degrees. There’s no stage per se, though there are a few sets built in various spots on the ground surrounding the seats, as well as one permanent structure that serves for some of the interior scenes. So we’d face one way, watch a scene, and then the theatre would rotate to a different point of view for the next scene. And occasionally the seats would rotate to track action; they drove a real-life horse and carriage in at one point, and the theatre moved along with the horses.
It was fascinating enough to keep me occupied through The Hound of the Baskervilles in Czech! The only words I understood were hello, thank you, and Sherlock Holmes. But while I wish they would have been staging opera or ballet, something more universal, I’d go see just about anything there to experience the lovely outdoor setting and unique staging.
By the time I trekked back down the hill–the walk up to the theater is not for the infirm–it was past 11 pm, and it seemed the only people walking through town were the ones who had also gone to the theater–all in pairs, mind you. (It seems only fair in counterbalance to the above raving about solo travel that I do get a slight twinge when everyone else in arm-in-arm, and I’m the only one trudging forward alone.)
I stayed at the Hotel Ruze, originally a 16th-century monastery. Its origins still show; the hallway sitting area was decorated with a rather intense religious theme, the room featured dark wood and heavy drapery, and the toilet was a literal throne. Pictured at right so you believe me.
The next morning threatened rain, so I had breakfast crepes at MLS and then strolled through the Egon Schiele Art Centrum. The art won’t astound you, but they had a couple interesting exhibits by lesser-known artists, and the space itself was a beautiful mix of old and new architecture. The skies had cleared by the time I was done, and I crossed the river to the less populated side of town (the tour groups are out in full force during the day) and spent a quiet hour in a park.
I was planning to sit in this pretty gazebo I could see from my hotel window, but when I got there, I discovered it was a little grungy, with graffiti, cigarettes, booze bottles, and unidentified puddles…I opted for a bench under a tree instead. It amused me, though, as a lesson in the ideal versus the real while traveling. Even charming villages have their dingy corners.
If I’d had a little more time and/or slightly better weather, I would have gone for the full castle tour–there’s a baroque theater and real live bears!–or rented a kayak to go down the river, as I saw many doing. But it was a welcome break from Prague and a delightful 24 hours.
On Saturday, we took a half-day trip to the nearby town of Kutna Hora. Just about an hour and a half away, we left Prague at 10, hit three churches, drank some wine, ate lunch, and were back by 5. We Roam was nice enough to set us up with a bus and a guide, making it a very easy excursion. (If you’re DIYing it, we booked through Discover Prague.)
Our first stop was the Cathedral of the Assumption of Our Lady–nice enough, with a lovely ceiling, but not really worth the drive. Fortunately, our guide was setting the bar low, with much more to come.
The main tourist attraction is the Bone Church, or Sedlec Ossuary if you’d like to be precise, and it more than lived up to the creepy hype. The space was small, but overwhelming, with giant pyramids of bones in cages, bone garlands spanning the archways, and a bone chandelier centerpiece that reportedly contains every bone in the human body.
According to our guide, the bones are meant to remind you of your mortality and so direct you towards god. As an atheist, my experience was less mystical and more just a matter of benign fascination. But it’s a sight I’m glad I was able to see.
Our third stop was the gorgeously Gothic Church of St. Barbara. I loved the ornate buttresses and the interior frescoes…
But if we’re going to be totally honest, what I loved even more was the tiny wine bar outside, with wines from the vineyards by the church and others nearby. We had a glass or two and took in the views.
Then we moved into the town itself and had lunch in the lovely outdoor space at Dacicky. If you are traveling with a group, this restaurant is on it; we ordered in advance and had barely sat down when they started passing out soup–and beer, natch. We took a stroll through the Italian Court and saw St. Barbara’s again from a fresh angle.
Then back on the bus to nap all the way home to Prague, full of local booze and heavy Czech cuisine.
If I were doing this tour solo, I probably would have taken a couple more hours to wander the town itself, which looked adorable. But we certainly hit the highlights, and if you’re spending more than a few days in Prague, it’s a worthwhile day trip.
What better to do on your first full day in Prague than get a bird’s-eye view of the city? There are a few places where you can do that, but we made our first trek up Petrin Hill. You can walk, but I recommend the funicular, an easy transfer from the Ujezd stop and included in your transport pass.
The first funicular stop is at the Nebozizek Restaurant, a good place to grab a cocktail and see the city. If you go all the way to the top, you actually don’t have a view…unless you replicate our insanity and climb to the top of Petrin Tower, Prague’s miniature take on the Eiffel Tower.
It’s 299 steps to the top, though you can pay more for the lift if you aren’t with super athletically inclined friends like I was. The middle view is actually the best though, with open spaces above the railings, rather than the sliding windows at the very top. There are also lookout points and resting benches after every couple flights, bless them. Once you’re up, you get a beautiful view of the city:
And if you time it right, you can get a spectacular sunset vista:
Aside from the tower, there are lovely gardens scattered over the hill, a cathedral, a historic wall, and, if you’re inclined towards the cheesy/creepy, a mirror maze and a “magical grotto,” i.e. a house full of weird paintings. We opted just to stroll down the hill towards the lower funicular stop and watch the light on the castle change as the sun disappeared and the lights of Prague came on.
I’ve decided at least 75% of travel to foreign cities is just climbing to the top of things for the view.
Last Wednesday morning, I got up so early that I’m sure some people were still out for the night to catch a flight to San Sebastian, also known as Donostia in the Basque language. After a couple weeks of traveling in a crowd, I was ready for a little alone time, and I was really excited to see San Sebastian, a town I’ve been longing to visit for years. (I think it started with The Sun Also Rises…)
The main attraction is food–San Sebastian is second only to Kyoto in the number of Michelin-starred restaurants per square kilometer, and I had reservations at two of them, Arzak and Mugaritz, both of which also feature on the World’s 50 Best list. The early flight, in fact, was made in the service of lunch at Arzak–I couldn’t get a dinner reservation, but it’s the same menu. And beyond the super fancy, San Sebastian is also famous for its pinxto bars: tiny restaurants that serve delectable small plates, which you eat standing up.
Beyond food, there’s not a lot going on. It’s a small town with three great beaches–even a surf break at one of them. The photo below sums up San Sebastian’s beach life; the dogs run free in that town. Unfortunately, three out of four days I was there were cold and rainy, so I spent a lot of time catching up on Netflix. There’s a museum, an aquarium, and loads of cute shops, but since I’m living out of a suitcase for a year, I took the time to recharge.
On Saturday, the sun finally came out, and I attempted to cram a long weekend’s worth of tourism into a day. First up, a trip to the Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim in Bilbao, which is an easy hour and fifteen minute bus ride from San Sebastian, a drive that winds through beautiful mountainous countryside.
The Guggenheim, like so many things, was smaller than I’d imagined, but lovely. The building itself is fascinating; every angle gives you a fresh perspective:
The main exhibition was Abstract Expressionism, and they had some interesting and significant works, though I have to admit that period leaves me a little cold. I was listening to the audio guide as I browsed, and while I’m fascinated by the artists’ processes, and I can intellectually understand the idea of creating a reaction through color or shape, rather than specific forms, it just doesn’t do much for me, much in the same way that I don’t like house music–my book-obsessed brain longs for narrative.
But I always look for at least one new painting to fall in love with, and at this museum, that was Anselm Kiefer’s The Renowned Orders of the Night. The photo doesn’t do it justice; it’s breathtaking in its scale.
Back in San Sebastian, I braved the hordes of children heading up to the rides at the tiny, rickety amusement park at the top of Monte Igueldo to get this breathtaking view of the city.
It was interesting–I don’t know if it’s because it was Saturday, or it was finally sunny, or the combo of the two, but I’d been thinking that San Sebastian was the sleepiest little town, just some surfers and a lot of old people, all of whom seemed to know each other, and hundreds of adorable pups. But then the sun comes out, and all of a sudden, the beach walkway is packed, and I’m fighting my way through the streets of Old Town like it’s Times Square.
I went to a pinxto bar recommended by none other than Anthony Bourdain, La Cuchara de San Telmo. Really, you’re supposed to do a pinxto crawl, but I only had it in me to elbow my way through one insanely crowded bar. It really is a bit of a fight, and then you’re left standing up eating gourmet food as if it were a bad canape at a reception. But I had delicious veal cheeks and pig’s feet in romesco sauce and suckling pig with an apple sauce (all the food my mom would refuse to eat, basically) and called it a night.
It was a slightly disappointing weekend, if I’m being honest, just because I’d built the city up so much in my mind–the difference between travel expectations and reality is something I think about often. And it was definitely one of those times, where if I hadn’t been flying solo, I might have been pushed to do more and explore further. But sometimes travel can be about recovery as much as discovery.
The only truly sour note of the weekend came as I was trying to leave at 7 AM on a Sunday morning. There were no taxis at the stand (you can’t hail one), and the promised 7:15 bus didn’t arrive. The taxi companies weren’t answering their phones. One group of people, just going home from the bars, promised to call me a cab from another town, but then they took the first one, and their drunk friends surrounded me and shooed me down the street, mocking me from the windows of the taxi that was supposed to be mine as they drove by.
Back at the taxi stand, another group of men came by and started talking to the girl standing next to me. In Spanglish, they offered me first a ride, then the open containers of beer they were holding–for obvious reasons, I accepted neither. I finally got through to a company and mustered enough college Spanish to communicate, “Necesito un taxi. Voy a aeropuerto. Estoy a Idiakez.” Not the most elegant turns of phrase, but a taxi did appear–which the other girl tried to take, since she was next in line. We communicated, insofar as we were able, and agreed that the taxi would drop her home first and then take me. Luckily (who has ever thought this?), my flight was delayed an hour, or I probably would have missed it.
So I suppose all’s well that ends well, and I never felt like I was in real danger–but it was a slightly dicey moment for a solo female traveler with only a moderate grasp on the language.
Nevertheless, I’m happy I saw the town and ate (some of) the food. It’s changed a lot from the quiet fishing village Hemingway visited, but it still has a certain charm.
Last weekend, my new friend and travel mate, Abby, thought it would be fun to do a double date. I was supposed to see a flamenco show with a guy I’d been talking to on OkCupid who was visiting Barcelona from Belgrade (our September stop–hoping to line things up in advance; I’m very pragmatic). Abby had never seen flamenco, so she hopped on her phone to find a fourth. Over lunchtime beers, this all seemed like a great plan.
By the time we were in the cab on the way to pre-flamenco drinks, our plan looked like it might be devolving into a third-wheel situation. Abby’s date was skeptical of the entire concept of the double date–perhaps it’s not so common in Spain?–sending messages like:
“I don’t understand why we’re going out with your friend. Can’t we have a date just the two of us?”
“Is this a group sex thing?”
But he kept promising that he was on his way–as soon as he got off work, changed his shirt, ran a couple errands…the excuses evolved over the course of the evening. Nevertheless, we soldiered on and were soon sitting across from my date, whom, to protect the privacy of the asinine, we’ll call Mark.
Allow me to be blunt: Mark was not attractive. Revisiting his profile later, I realized how strategic his photos were. So, all dolled up in my Friday night red-lipsticked best, that was disappointing. But he gave good text, so I had my fingers crossed for some scintillating conversation.
Then, ten minutes after we sat down, Mark told us about Helen, another girl he met on OkCupid, with whom he’d spent the entire week, sharing a room by night and exploring Barcelona by day. “I hope she might come by later,” he said casually, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to tell someone when you’re supposed to be on a date.
So at this point, two girls. One guy. The promise of a potential third girl. No actual dates happening. But there were mojitos on special and some delicious pesto bread, so we continued.
Getting the bill in Spain is always a process, and I wanted to regroup with Abby about our plans for the evening, so I sent Mark ahead to get seats for the flamenco show. When we were halfway there, Mark messaged to say there were no seats left; we’d arrived too late. There went the entire premise of the evening.
At this point, I was ready to bail and tried to convince Abby we should find another bar with different, better boys. It was Friday night, we were dressed up, it was Barcelona. But she was committed–to the idea that Mark could hook us up in Belgrade, to the possibility that her date (still messaging! still promising!) might come through, maybe even to the narrative itself.
So we moved to a different table on the main square of El Raval and waited for Mark to rejoin us–he seemed mysteriously committed to the evening as well. The waiter approached and asked, “Drinks? Mojitos?”
It’s like he knew us.
Mark came back and proceeded to tell us the FULL story of his romance with Helen, complete with photos. It was like a fairy tale, right up to the point where Helen apparently broke his heart the night before. Guess that’s why he decided to meet up with me? (Pro tip: don’t tell the girl you’re on a date with that she’s a consolation prize.)
Figuring this obliterated the need for any vestige of politeness, Abby and I were blatantly on our phones at this point. She started a thread on our We Roam Slack so that everyone might delight in a little schadenfreude. She also surreptitiously took photos of Mark showing us photos of Helen (they’re hilarious, but I’m too nice to post them). And we were both swiping through Tinder, still trying to make an actual double date out of the evening.
After forty-five minutes or so, I hooked one. Let’s-call-him-Diego was on his way and promised to bring a friend for Abby.
Half an hour later, Diego showed up alone. Alone and fully twenty-five years older than his late 20s-looking Tinder pics. 50 at least. Balding.
I contemplated karma as I scurried across the street to meet him, vaguely explaining that Mark was someone we’d met recently, and he was a little weird, so Diego should just ignore him. Not the world’s best cover story, but I was five or six mojitos deep.
We shared an awkward cocktail, over which Diego explained the finer points of Spain’s governmental structure, and then Abby and I agreed via WhatsApp that it was time to go.
“We have to volunteer REALLY early,” I announced as I stood up. “This has been lots of fun, but our volunteer work is so important to us.” (I’m smarmy when I’m irritated.)
But the fun wasn’t over yet. Diego offered to drive us home, we accepted, and then Mark–still in it to win it–insisted that Diego should drive him to our place as well, and it would be easy for him to walk from there.
Up to my eyeballs in bullshit, I asked Mark where he was staying, pulled up Google maps on my phone, and showed him that his Airbnb was just a ten minute walk from the square, while our place was 30 minutes farther away, and for that reason, we would be parting ways immediately. (Abby has photos of this, too.) I couldn’t have been more clear if I’d had a projector and a pointer.
He drunkenly acquiesced, and we waved goodbye as we speed walked down the street. One awkward car ride and a quick double cheek kiss later, we were free. Free to head upstairs to have a bottle of wine nightcap and regale our friends with the already legendary tale.
Instead of a double date, two dates. At one table. Both of them terrible. With a chaperone. Not exactly the romantic foreign escapade I’ve been imagining.
Was this the kind of date you all thought I’d be having in Spain? Anyone care to top my bad date anecdote? Commiserate below!
Our Barcelona apartments (which bear more of a resemblance to dorms, but oh well) are sort of in a no-man’s land. Poblenou is the closest neighborhood, but we’re definitely not in it. But we are equidistant from a lot of wonderful things, and we’re an easy 20-minute walk to El Born, an adorable old neighborhood packed with shops and bars. The other day I took a photo stroll the long way round…
My first meandering point was the Parc de la Ciutadella. It’s massive (70 acres), and it has museums, the zoo, and a lake you can row on, amidst other delights. You can even have a training session if you want to…
Or, if you’re like me, you can just walk around, read on the grass for a while, and take some photos. My favorite shot is below–I hate those obnoxious bubble gun salesmen, but I love how the bubbles look against the fountain:
From the Parc, you cross the street and enter El Born, full of adorably winding side streets like this one…
…and loads of street art and charming details:
I paused to have lunch at an outdoor table. Sadly, the restaurants with terraces often don’t have the best food in the city, but basic tapas are universal, and I was perfectly content with croquettes, salad, and padron peppers in the sunshine.
Next, I crossed Via Laietana into Barri Gotic, or the Gothic Quarter. It has a very similar vibe as El Born; if you aren’t looking at a map, you wouldn’t know they were two neighborhoods. But there are some nice Gothic* touches. Asterisked because apparently some of the lovely details were created for the 1929 International Exposition. One of my travel mates is infuriated by Barcelona’s penchant for recreation; he told me yesterday that Italy is better because it’s actually old. But I say, what the hell, as long as it’s pretty.
The Gothic Quarter also contains my favorite square (so far, at least), the Placa Reial. It’s lined with delicious restaurants and fun bars (try Sidecar if you want to dance to 80s music), and don’t tell my friend, but it reminds me of Piazza Navona in Rome.
Hope you enjoyed taking this stroll with me! There are so many Barcelona neighborhoods still to explore, and only two weeks left to walk through them. Travel anxiety is real.
If you find yourself in Barcelona on the first weekend of the month (except for August), I highly recommend making your way into the Poblenou neighborhood to visit the Palo Alto Market. This vibrant, elevated flea market was the perfect complement to my beach day Saturday. And it’s the perfect antidote to the widespread Sunday restaurant closures.
The market’s open Saturday and Sunday from 11 am-9 pm. I was there from about 12:30-2:30–it wasn’t too crowded when I first arrived, but by the time I left, it was packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
A “design” market more so than a flea market, the stalls lean towards cute local goods: sunglasses, canvas bags, handmade jewelry, small-batch clothing–like Etsy brought to life, none of the used t-shirts and antique spoon collections you might find at a regular flea market (though I love a good treasure hunt at those). And the setting, a garden at an old factory, perfectly matches the content. Instead of an empty parking lot, the grounds are beautifully landscaped, and the market winds around the trails and through multiple buildings, the live music swelling and and fading as you turn the corners.
A 4 euro entry fee gets you access to a gorgeous garden and dozens of stalls selling delicious food and fun merch. Well worth a visit, if you have enough time in Barcelona to venture beyond the main tourist attractions; several of my friends went both Saturday and Sunday, and we all wish it were open more than one weekend a month!
At the very end of March, I met a friend who lives in D.C. in Charleston for a Friday-Monday weekend of fun. Charleston is the perfect city for a weekend getaway: Southern food, historic buildings, ocean breezes, unironic bowties, and strong drinks.
And late March is a great time to visit in terms of weather (low 70s for the win), though I’d check the city calendar if your dates are flexible. We were there the weekend of the Bridge Run, a 10k across Ravenel Bridge. It didn’t put much of a damper on our plans–we weren’t up and moving on Saturday until the race was over–but we did spend all weekend telling Uber drivers, “No, we didn’t do the Bridge Run…no, we didn’t know it was happening.” Or I guess you could go to Charleston FOR the Bridge Run, if you’re into that…you do you.
Do you really want to run across that? It’s more of a hill than it looks!
We landed late afternoon Friday and went to our hotel, the Mills House, to drop our bags. The airport is an easy half hour ride from downtown; they have shared taxis for $14 or an Uber is about $30. The Mills House is perfectly situated downtown; the rooms are a tiny bit dated, especially the bathrooms, but it’s very comfortable.
Friday night we had drinks at The Gin Joint, and they are not messing around with those cocktails. In addition to a solid menu, they have a list of words to choose from: pick any two, and the bartender will make you something. I got a drink that was “refreshing” and “spicy”–it was also delicious. But to be honest, the cocktails were a bit of a mistake because I was already slightly buzzed, when we got to the main event for the night: the tasting menu at McCrady’s, complete, of course, with wine pairings.
We had 15 delicious plates, seated at long, high tables with just a small handful of other diners and the chefs working nearby. There wasn’t an off note on the menu, but my personal favorite was the carrot tart. To paraphrase Willy Wonka, the carrots just tasted exactly like carrots. But the dish that won best presentation is pictured on the right–the Virginia Oyster, a single, gorgeous bite with a plateful of pomp.
We got a late start on Saturday, after tipsily going to another bar after dinner, but it was a perfect, sunshiney day. We stopped in at the very adorable City Lights for coffee to fortify us for a long walk up King Street, the main shopping drag (mostly chains, but a few independent boutiques mixed in). Determined to eat my weight in carbs, we stopped in for biscuit brunch at Callie’s Hot Little Biscuit. For less than ten dollars, I got FOUR biscuits–two cheddar and chive with ham, two buttermilk with cinnamon butter. Heaven, basically.
Then we walked and walked and walked–through the Market, (which is mostly junk, but I did find a lovely vintage jewelry stand of course), out to Waterfront Park, where I took that lovely photo of Ravenel Bridge above, down along the Battery, with a nice recovery sit in White Point Garden, where we watched people get engagement and wedding photos taken and a true hero assemble a DIY hammock.
In the early evening, we took a house tour with the Charleston Historic Foundation, as part of their annual Festival of Houses and Gardens. We went into about half a dozen homes on the Church Street Tour, and it was fascinating to see how people restored and renovated these centuries-old homes, preserving the old while allowing for modern conveniences. Our tour wrapped just after 8, and we finished the evening with a tasty–though not a standout–meal at The Grocery.
Sunday was my favorite day. It started with gospel brunch at Halls Chophouse, and I can’t imagine a better Sunday morning. The music was gorgeous, and the baby back ribs and sweet tea I had took me back to my Southern childhood (I could kill a rack before age 10, and I have the sticky face photos to prove it). We had caramel cake for dessert because obviously, dessert with breakfast is a must on vacation.
We hopped in an Uber after brunch for a 30-minute trip over the bridge and through Mt. Pleasant to Sullivan’s Island, where we took a walk on the beach that was the highlight of my weekend. The wind was serious; most people laying out were hiding back in the dunes. But the sun was out, and the wind was perfect for kite surfers, who we watched fly through the air. Even better than the acrobatics, though, were the sandpipers scurrying around the shore and dodging the waves. It was a fun camera challenge for me–they move fast.
There are a few cute bars and restaurants with big patios on the strip of road just up from the beach, but on a sunny Sunday, they were packed, so we opted to head back to the hotel, drink some wine in the courtyard, then lounge on the pool deck for a bit. Later on, we went for pre-dinner cocktails at the Vendue Hotel rooftop bar. It was too windy, but we were determined. The view is pretty, and the drinks are tropical.
Dinner that night was the showstopper: Husk, which is famous for a reason. We had pig’s ear lettuce wraps to start (I know some of you are grimacing, but the flavor and texture were fantastic), and then I had a perfectly cooked (too rare!) and seasoned pork chop. Dessert was the pinnacle, though, which it never is for me. I’d usually prefer a second appetizer, but the blueberry “cobbler”–in quotes because they were actually bite-sized pieces of herbaceous pie crust instead of the traditional format–with goat cheese ice cream was one of the best desserts I’ve ever had.
We went to bed early that night and made the most of our final morning, starting with breakfast at Hominy Grill. I’ve heard it gets crazy on the weekends (it’s become a bit of a tourist attraction), but on a Monday, we were able to get a seat right away for our Charleston Nasty Biscuits, with fried chicken breast, cheddar cheese, and sausage gravy. After dessert (of course), we Ubered to the Angel Oak on Johns Island. It’s a bit of a haul for a tree, but it really is beautiful.
As full as the weekend was, we didn’t quite get to everything. Charleston has gorgeous museums, and there’s a slice of coconut cake with my name on it at the Peninsula Grill. But we hit a lot of the highlights, and we definitely ATE a lot of the highlights.
Have you been to Charleston? What were your favorite spots? Let me know if you have any questions about the city, too. And for more photos, make sure to follow my Instagram.
On Tuesday, I considered my options: I could take the funicular to the top of 
were back by 5. We Roam was nice enough to set us up with a bus and a guide, making it a very easy excursion. (If you’re DIYing it, we booked through 
The first funicular stop is at the 
packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
oint Garden, where we watched people get engagement and wedding photos taken and a true hero assemble a DIY hammock.
ighlight of my weekend. The wind was serious; most people laying out were hiding back in the dunes. But the sun was out, and the wind was perfect for kite surfers, who we watched fly through the air. Even better than the acrobatics, though, were the sandpipers scurrying around the shore and dodging the waves. It was a fun camera challenge for me–they move fast.
