There aren’t many places left in the world that are both truly off the beaten path. One town in Burma has over 2,000 stunning ancient temples…and barely any tourists.Peter Adams/Getty
The three teams attempting to walk to the South Pole as part of the Virgin Money Allied Challenge battle fatigue in brutal conditions2013 WWTW
Something’s afoot in Paris, but it has nothing to do with kings or the bourgeoisie. The culprit: specialty beer. From microbrewers to bar owners, meet the people leading the uprising.
It’s almost 8 p.m. I am waiting at the Chateau Rouge metro station deep in Paris’s 18th arrondissement for Phillip, an American expat and craft-beer aficionado. The neighborhood is called Goutte d’Or, which translates to “drop of gold,” and it isn’t exactly the Paris you see in postcards. Its residents are mainly North and sub-Saharan African. People scurry past me while eating freshly roasted corn on the cob. It’s noisy, crowded, and alive. While I wait, three armed gendarmerie officers bound up the stairs from the metro and converge on a hooded man selling things on the corner of the street. Shortly after, Phillip arrives.
Courtesy La Fine Mousse
It is here, in this dynamic community, that renegade brewmaster Thierry Roche is fermenting his own drops of gold at the partly crowd-funded Brasserie de la Goutte d’Or—the only brewery that is actually in Paris. When Phillip and I arrive, Thierry is squeegeeing puddles of soapy water from underneath the oak beer tanks and out the front door. He is wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and bright white knee-high rubber boots. He admits to us that most of the time he is more of a janitor than a brewmaster. I like him already.
After a few minutes of small talk, Thierry whips out a few glasses and bottles. His unfiltered, unpasteurized, 100 percent organic beers, brewed in small batches, carry the names of local streets and districts in Goutte d’Or. He opens a bottle of Ernestine, an IPA enriched with rooibos and cola nuts that he bought at the local open-air market Marché Dejean. It’s quite bitter and has a subtle fruitiness. It goes down fast. Then we try his Charbonnière. At 7.5 percent alcohol, it’s right up my alley. It’s an amber beer with smoked malts that pours a dark caramel color with a small white head. It’s not overly carbonated or refrigerated, so all the smoky flavors come bursting forward.
For decades, experts puzzled over hundreds of ancient dead bodies found at a remote lake. Were they victims of disease? Mass suicide? War? The answer is weirder than you think.
For one month a year, the icy waters of Roopkund Lake melt enough to reveal scattered skeletal remains of 200 humans who perished in the region 1,200 years ago. Because of the harsh conditions of the remote lake, nestled 15,750 feet in the Himalayan mountains of India bordering Nepal and only accessible via a five-day ascending trek, scientists estimate there could still be 400 undiscovered bodies.
This grisly find was first uncovered by a British forest ranger in 1942, and immediately inspired legends to explain the identities of the mysterious group of dead trekkers. It was first posited that they were Japanese soldiers who had died while crossing the area during World War II. But that was soon debunked by the age of the bones. Others believed them to be the remains of the Kashmir warrior Zogawar Singh and his army, who were lost returning from Tibet. And still others theorized the bodies were a result of a battle, epidemic, landslide, or a ritual suicide.
For decades, their cause of death remained unsolved. But a half century later, DNA testing of the bones found none of the initial theories to be true, and discovered something even more unbelievable. Analysis showed that the bones belonged to two separate groups traveling together who were killed by giant blows to their heads and shoulders. Cause of death? Massive hail and nowhere to hide.
In the great Caribbean melting pot, one group is largely overlooked: Jewish refugees who settled centuries ago. Their descendants are unearthing graveyards to reclaim a piece of history.
“Bless-ed Rise, Bless-ed Rise,” the three-syllable Rastafarian greeting echoed off rusted copper kettle planters lining the breezeways of our Jamaican hotel. It came from a fellow guest who lilted like an islander, yet looked like a Long Islander, so I felt comfortable asking this: “Why not say ‘good morning’?” “Ah,” he smiled up at the ceiling, as though this was the best question he’d ever heard, “Morning sounds too much like mourning.” Exactly like it, you could say. Only later, at the front desk, did I learn Jamaican Rastafarians have a thing about the dead. Luckily, he didn’t ask why we were there.
At the last minute, I’d joined a handful of volunteers, not to wade into the Caribbean waters, but rather into the past. We’d spend half the week documenting one of the island’s oldest Jewish cemeteries, and then launch an Indiana Jones-style adventure up the coast to find a hidden burial ground that we had good reason to believe was in a backyard in the sleepy town of Savanna-La-Mar.
Was its existence just another colorful strand of island lore, like tales of mysterious “duppies,” deceased spirits who haunt people in their dreams? Or would we uncover clues to a long-forgotten community? No matter. Focusing on the adventure made it easier to gloss over the unsettling fact that the first half of the week we’d be in downtown Kingston, one of the most notoriously dangerous places in the Caribbean.
Kingston is also home to the majority of Jamaica’s Jewish population, as it has been for centuries. Before the English arrived, Jamaica belonged to the Columbus family, (yes, that Columbus), who turned a blind eye to a community of Jews that, according to scholars, had been on the island since it was “settled” (there were already indigenous people living there) in 1510. They were refugees from the Inquisition, Jews who migrated to practice religion in the tolerant Dutch and English New World colonies. Some founded a synagogue in Recife, Brazil (now in ruins), then fanned out throughout the Caribbean. In addition to well-known historic Jewish sites in Barbados, Curacao, and St. Thomas, there were also once-thriving communities on Cuba, St. Kitts & Nevis, and St. Eustatius; yet, as in Jamaica, most historic evidence has been lost to generations of overgrowth and neglect.
From ceviche marinade to picked sheep eyeballs to ground rhino horns, here are the craziest hangover cures from around the globe.
A Bloody Mary may be America’s tried-and-true hangover cure, but the morning after a 7-hour Thanksgiving dinner and countless drinks may require a stronger concoction. On Friday morning, take some cues from around the world—if you can stomach it. Just be glad you didn’t wake up in ancient Rome, where the traditional cure was a deep-fried canary, eaten whole.
After a night of too much sake, the Japanese rely on a type of dried sour plums called umeboshi. To dilute the bitterness, the less-than-brave steep them in green tea.
An oversight in planning leads one future food writer to take a chance on a stranger, resulting in a feast in the countryside of Ouro Preto that would change her life forever.
Dusk was falling, that swift folding of day into darkness that characterizes the tropics. As the light condensed and dwindled I contemplated my ill planning. The fact that I would be arriving at my destination late into the night, with no bookings, no connections and no means of letting anyone know where I was seemed optimistic beyond belief. I had figured the bus trip from Rio to Ouro Preto to be around six hours but here I was with another four hours still to go. A thread of anxiety started its twist into my stomach as the bus wound ever onwards into the dense blackness of night.
Ouro Preto, Brazil (Adriana Fuchter/Getty)
The man sitting next to me on this endless journey was short and balding with a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a cable-knit cardigan and grey Velcro shoes… strange how banal details like this can be recalled… it certainly wasn’t as if I fancied him. But he was a friendly enough companion to share the view from the front seat of the bus, revealing the nuances of the landscape along the way and, as the journey progressed, more personal details of his life. He was a policeman in Rio. He was making the trip to visit his recently widowed mother. He grew up in Ouro Preto and would be there for a few days over the fiesta of Nossa Senhora do Rosário. His name was Cynlio.
It was close to midnight when the bus finally rolled into the town square. Rain falling in buckets, the pitchest black of unwelcoming nights. My querulous enquiries to the bus driver in stumbling Portuguese—the whereabouts of a hotel, an information centre, a phone booth—were all met with a blank stare of incomprehension. Cynlio popped into my one-way conversation in his pidgin Portu-English, gently informing me there would be “no thing open now, no hotel until amanhã de manhã.” In other words, tomorrow morning. But he had a ‘good’ solution. I could stay at his mother’s house, with my own room at the front. I would be safe and she would not mind …
Just after graduating from culinary school, an Australian chef has a food epiphany when he backpacks through a part of Italy that still lives—and cooks—in the traditional ways.
Somewhere in a drawer back home in Australia, there's a photo of me standing in the Melbourne International Airport. I’m wearing a wide-brimmed outback hat and holding a beat-up Australian football under my arm. A gigantic backpack looms behind my head, dwarfing my 6-foot 3-inch frame. I’m twenty-one years old and feeling like I’m the first Aussie to ever set foot outside the Commonwealth.
It was 1998, the year Monica Lewinsky’s stained blue dress almost impeached a president and the European Central Bank was born in Frankfurt, Germany. It was also the year that I first travelled outside of Australia, and I had that particular blend of swagger and stupidity that young men have when they get their first real taste of freedom.
In hindsight that photo is the beginning of adventures that are still unfolding today. But when I posed for it, I only knew what had ended—culinary school. After four years studying and working every conceivable station at the Savoy Hotel in Melbourne, I was officially a chef. In those days, all the best chefs were European, so I reckoned that after school I’d head to Europe to study with the masters. While I was filleting barramundi and julienning carrots, I saved like a man with a plan. When culinary school ended, I sold my sky-blue Datsun 200B and counted the till; I had ten thousand Australian dollars to my name, which meant I could travel for roughly three months on $100 a day. When the money was gone, I’d need to find a job.
No, it wasn’t champagne or beer or even whiskey, but cider—the drink of the Romans and British sailors. It’s a tipple you should still be knocking back on Thanksgiving.
“It is indeed bad to eat apples. It is better to make them all into cider”
—Benjamin Franklin, in Remarks Concerning the Savages of North America, reporting an American Indian’s response to hearing the story of Adam and Eve.
No one knows exactly what the Pilgrims drank at the first Thanksgiving back in 1621. No known televised documentaries have survived to date, and little written documentation chronicling the meal exists. However, all evidence points to the fact that the Pilgrims toasted survival and that first harvest in America with mugs of hard apple cider.
Could ground balloons.
Even Al Roker might not be able to save this one. After ruining thousands of people's holiday travel plan, the weather now might ruin millions of people's favorite Thanksgiving entertainment, The Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. If sustained winds go higher than 23 mph and gusts more than 34 mph, all those fun parade balloons like Snoopy and Sonic won't take off. The forecasts currently predict winds of at least 15 to 20 mph and gusts reaching 40 mph. "We are closely monitoring the weather as we do each year," says Macy's spokeswoman Holly Thomas. "On Thanksgiving morning, Macy's works closely with the NYPD, who, based on real time weather data and the official regulations determine if the balloons will fly and at what heights." The balloons have been grounded once before, in 1971.
Ending long process.
After winter storm hits Northeast.
There might be a lot of people spending Thanksgiving alone. More than 200 flights were canceled and 5,000 more delayed on Tuesday—the day before the busiest travel day of the year—as a nasty winter storm headed toward the Northeast. Charlotte Douglas International, Chicago’s O’Hare International, Denver International, and Cleveland Hopkins International had the most delays and cancellations, according to Flightstat.com. But things could get messier as the storm moves even closer to the Northeast, home to the nation’s busiest airports. The nasty storm is already being blamed for 11 deaths as it made its way across the country this week.
From a submerged Bar Refaeli to a Mediterranean idyll, a voyeur’s look at the stars’ sun-soaked scenes.
Wildlife, storytelling, dung, and other things I encountered on my Zambian safari.
The bouillabaisse is just as tasty, but Europe’s 2013 Capital of Culture now has a lot more to offer. Anna Watson Carl reports.
More than a natural wonder, Cappadocia's formations have been a safe haven to many. Nina Strochlic reports.
Tony Wheeler, co-founder of Lonely Planet Publications, remembers the fun early days of travel guide writing, but says they're not over yet.
Miley Cyrus’ fav new haunt is Beacher’s Madhouse, the craziest club in Los Angeles.
Take the vacation of a lifetime—in beautiful North Korea? That’s Uri Tours’ pitch. Lloyd Grove reports.
In ‘Mapping Manhattan,’ explore the city via 75 New Yorkers’ personal geographies. By Allison McNearney.