Three Perfect Days: London
Day 1
Skipping and sipping around stylish Soho
The odd thing about waking up at the Ham Yard Hotel is that your room tends to be more dreamlike than your dreams.Tucked away in a courtyard in Soho, central London, the property is one of the latest projects from exuberant British designer Kit Kemp, and she has gone full-on March Hare with this one: life-size crocodile sculptures applied to an expanse of butterfly-print wallpaper; a 20-foot spiral of cascading oranges in the basement bar. The arrival of the Ham Yard, in turn, speaks to the ongoing transformation of this neighborhood, which used to be a place of burlesque shows and boho boozers, and which today, it seems, cannot go a week without someone opening a hot new shop, restaurant, or drinking establishment.
I have plans to explore the neighborhood later, but first I want to take a look at an even more surreal example of interior design. So, after a hasty breakfast—chili beans on granary toast, served with chorizo and Greek yogurt, eaten below a cluster of mismatched light fixtures—I head off toward Holborn, home to Sir John Soane's Museum.
Soane, a distinguished 19th-century architect, had a hoarding problem. Luckily, he tended to hoard things like statues and paintings rather than receipts. Today, his former home is packed to the rafters with so many marvelous antiquities it makes your head spin. I particularly enjoy the candlelit crypt, which has an ancient sarcophagus and a set of rusty manacles on the wall—although the Canaletto upstairs isn't bad either.
From here, I head south, past the Gothic Royal Courts of Justice, to Temple Church, built in the 12th century by the Knights Templar. Inside are effigies of these knights, many bearing the scars of a World War II bombing, which also scattered the bones buried below. (When I ask an attendant where I can find the remains of über-knight William Marshal, he replies, pointing: “There, there, and there.")
My next stop is Piccadilly Circus and the nearby Dover Street Market, a multi-story emporium selling high-concept clothing via art-installation floor displays. It's a must-visit for anyone interested in being the least fashionable person within a 200-yard radius. The shop is also within sashaying distance of the place I'm having lunch: Ikoyi, a new West African–inspired eatery that's been getting rave reviews.
After the visual excess of Dover Street, the interior of Ikoyi seems almost stark. The food, though, is sensational, not to mention eye-wateringly spicy. To start, I have dambu nama (dried beef floss) and whipped bone-marrow tarts, followed by succulent grilled octopus with ndolé (stewed greens with nuts). Now and then, the chef pops up to explain to a diner what banga is, or moin moin, which gives the meal a theatrical feel.
"The French House has two rules: Beer comes in half-pints, and no being boring."
From here it's on to The French House, a storied pub in the heart of Soho. You could fill a book with the notable people who have drunk here: Brendan Behan, Francis Bacon, Lucian Freud, Salvador Dalí. Charles de Gaulle is said to have written his wartime rallying cry on the premises, while Dylan Thomas reportedly mislaid his manuscript for Under Milk Wood here in 1953. One of the regulars now is Russell Norman, a restaurateur, author, and TV personality who has been called “The King of Soho."
“The French House is probably the last remaining drinking hole that connects directly with the heyday of Soho," he says. “It's eccentric, it's authentic, and I love it."
There are a couple of rules here: They sell beer only by the half-pint, and patrons are not allowed to be boring (said to be “a bannable offense"). So it's with some trepidation that I strike up conversation with Lesley Lewis, the pub's garrulous landlady, who is sitting at the bar with a white wine.
Lewis took over the French House in 1989—one of only three owners in a hundred years—and did not set about trying to jazz things up. “We've tried to keep the essence," she says, taking a sip of wine. “Everything is changing so fast around here. There's not many old-school places left." Another sip. “But I still believe in Soho." Sip. “You have to be positive about what is rising out of the ruins."
Things liven up when the anecdotes start, the best of which belongs to Lewis: “There was a guy named Billy, who owned a [burlesque] club. One day, the council told him he had to black out the windows, so he's standing on the street outside with a tin of paint when Francis Bacon comes by and offers to help. That was Billy's only claim to fame. He'd go around telling people, 'I have an original Francis Bacon.'"
"There aren't many old-school places left. You have to be positive about what is rising out of the ruins."
Leaving The French House, I follow Norman up Compton Street—“The main river running through Soho"—for a caffeine boost at Bar Termini. A stylish coffee shop/cocktail bar located in a former strip club, Termini is owned by one of Britain's most famous mixologists, Tony Conigliaro, a lapsed artist who describes his job as “painting with flavor." He's certainly adventurous—one of his cocktails is infused with clay, flint, and lichen to evoke the taste of the earth. A more recent creation is a drink he calls Snow. “The premise is, wouldn't it be amazing if we could recreate the experience of catching a snowflake on your tongue?" he says. “That took two years to work out."
I'm catching a show later, so, after a bit of people-watching and boutique-browsing, I head for an early dinner at Kettner's Townhouse, which was founded in the 19th century by a man who was rumored to be a former chef to Napoleon III and has entertained the likes of Oscar Wilde, Agatha Christie, and Robert De Niro. This year, it was refurbished and reopened as a hotel and restaurant by the people behind the achingly fashionable Soho House members club. The restaurant has more or less kept the feel of the original: a tinkling piano near the entrance, thin candles on the tables. I order rillettes of rabbit with pickled radishes, followed by a vol-au-vent of kidneys, sweetbreads, black truffles, and baby carrots. It's a fine meal, but the real star here is the place's see-and-be-seen energy. Speaking of which…
A quick hop west takes me to the Apollo Theatre, which is running the hit musical Everybody's Talking About Jamie, a coming-of-age story about a schoolboy who longs to become a drag queen—basically, Billy Elliot in heels. It's a charming, lively production that has people grinning and bobbing in their seats.
I end the night at the Rosewood London's jazz bar, Scarfes, named for satirical cartoonist Gerald Scarfe, whose creations decorate the walls. While there's a clubby refinement to the place—high ceilings, low lighting, antique books—the atmosphere is far from stuffy. I take an armchair in a shadowy corner and attempt to read the menu. The cocktails are named after celebrities the bar's namesake has lampooned; I summon the waiter, point at a sketch of Alfred Hitchcock, and say I'll have one of those. The drink, a tequila-based concoction called A Bird in the Hand (get it?), comes topped with a bird's nest. It looks cozy.
An hour or so later, I'm in my room at the Ham Yard, gazing at the tailor's dummy standing near the gray-green striped wall, the forest-scene fabric on the headboard, the small monkey riding a unicycle across the carpet. In fairness, that final touch may have happened after I fell asleep.
Day 2
Perusing the posh shops and restaurants of Chelsea and Notting Hill
Certainly, there was nothing like Chel-Ski back then. Situated in a former warehouse for the Christopher Wray interiors store, this indoor ski center was opened a few years ago by Wray's son, Ben. So it is I find myself, before breakfast, slaloming on a huge lubricated treadmill. The velocity and gradient are adjusted according to the ability of the skier. For me, the instructor keeps the dial on "Nervous Baby," but I still emit a succession of noises that call to mind Johnny Rotten's debut gig at the Roebuck pub, circa 1975.
Brunch is a more sedate affair, in a plant-filled atrium in the popular Ivy Chelsea Garden, where I have a juicy rib eye, seated across from the impeccable Olivia Newman-Young, who has agreed to show me around the neighborhood. A makeup artist and onetime cast member of the reality show Made in Chelsea, Newman-Young has a pedigree such that even the chillingly exclusive nightclub Raffles doesn't faze her. "It's meant to be members-only," she says, barely looking up from her tuna carpaccio, "but you can get in if you're the right kind of person."
"As well as being a playground for punks and princesses, the Kings Road has long served as a catwalk for local kooks."
With this, she leads me along the Kings Road, pointing out stuff she likes along the way—The Kooples for fashion, the Bluebird (“obviously") for food. She's been going out here since her teens and recalls many a fun night at places like Jak's Bar, “where all the posh kids go to let loose." As well as being a playground for punks and princesses, the Kings Road has long served as a catwalk for local kooks. “I love the Chelsea grandmas, wearing the clothes of a 20-year-old and looking fabulous," Newman-Young says. “You don't get that in Shoreditch."
I leave Newman-Young at Sloane Square and head into the Saatchi Gallery, which is housed in a grand 19th-century building and puts on exhibitions that skew heavily toward the inscrutable. The first thing I see upon entering is a huge canvas by Los Angeles–based English painter Danny Fox, a naïve depiction of two seated women titled Planned Parenthood Waiting Room. It has a touch of Gauguin to it, but also a touch of off-kilter dilettante. Very Saatchi.
Wandering toward Kensington, I come across The Map House, a treasure trove that has counted Winston Churchill and Ernest Shackleton among its customers. One wall contains a 19th-century “Poverty Map of London" with a color-coded index ranging from yellow (“wealthy") to black (“vicious, semi-criminal"). Nearby is a 17th-century map of the world—which, the dignified store clerk informs me, is valued at £950,000. I ask how long it has been hanging there, and he gives me a thin smile: “A while."
If it's an impulse buy you're after, you may be better off at the nearby Conran Shop, a colorful lifestyle showroom established by one of Britain's most influential designers, Sir Terence Conran. The store is located in the Michelin House, a tiled-and-domed Art Nouveau masterpiece that was built as the tire company's British headquarters in 1911.
In the same building is another celebrated Conran enterprise, Bibendum. Opened three decades ago and recently relaunched with French master Claude Bosi at the helm, the restaurant has already earned two Michelin stars. However, I opt to eat downstairs, in the building's old forecourt, at the Bibendum Oyster Bar, a less formal space with intricate tilework and a menu that makes you eat like a whale (I get a seafood platter over-flowing with fresh crab, oysters, shrimp, and cockles).
Next, I head to the new Harry's Dolce Vita, which looks like a bar from a 1930s railway station and has a staff that greets you like a long-lost friend. As I scan the menu, a white-coated bartender suggests I try an Infinite Negroni, explaining that the ingredients are determined by rolling three dice—one for the type of gin, one for the vermouth, and one for the aperitivo. “It is a gamble," the bartender says, deadpan. I roll the dice (Occitan London Dry, Bordiga, Aperol), raise my glass to a photo of Sophia Loren, and take a sip. We have a winner!
A quick cab ride takes me to the Design Museum, which opened its new Kensington home to great fanfare in 2016. The museum pays homage to high design (there's a Ferrari exhibition on when I visit), but the real joy is in the everyday objects—telephones and turntables, computers and cameras—that have become redundant in terms of function but have been saved from the trash heap thanks to their being easy on the eye.
Next, I cut through Holland Park, whose narrow pathways crisscross thick woodland, creating the illusion that you're in the countryside—until you come across the refined Japanese garden, or the remnants of a Jacobean mansion, or one of the many peacocks roaming around. Emerging from the park's northern end, I head up toward Notting Hill, stopping to ogle a gorgeous aqua-marine overcoat at Paul Smith Westbourne House, then hit Portobello Road, which on the weekends is a carnival of musicians, antiques stalls, and street food vendors, and is also home to scores of trendy shops, restaurants, and bars.
"Portobello Road on the weekends is a carnival of musicians, antiques stalls, and street food vendors."
For a pre-prandial drink, I've opted for Trailer Happiness, a quirky basement tiki joint that's become a local institution. I sit at the bar and order a Hell in the Pacific, a sweet and alarmingly potent rum drink that, the bartender tells me, will pick me up. “Or knock you down," says the Irish guy next to me.
Dinner is at 108 Garage, a refurbished auto shop with industrial-chic decor that's offset by a large portrait of Henry the Pious. Chef Chris Denney, a onetime art student and pot washer, opened this spot along with his colorful business partner, Luca Longobardi, in 2016, with little money and almost no advance publicity. Yet, within a few months, 108 Garage had emerged as one of London's hottest eateries (it claimed Tatler's Restaurant of the Year prize for 2018) and Denney as one of its hottest chefs.
Tonight, Denney works the kitchen as if playing an extended game of whack-a-mole. I sit at the counter, trying to keep up with the hail of dishes placed before me: hogget loin with a lamb-tongue lollipop; crispy pig head with wild watercress; octopus with black garlic, kohlrabi, and harissa. It's a bold, creative meal, but Denney is not one of those chefs who see themselves as the star of the show. “I know it sounds corny, but it's the farmer who does all the work," he says. “We just send the produce on its merry way the best we can."
Flagging, I head out for Mayfair and The Connaught, one of the loveliest hotels in London, where I'm met in my lavish suite by James, the butler. I tell him I'd like to check out the famous Connaught Bar before turning in, and he offers to show me the way. I decline but tell him I might need someone to guide me back to my room afterward, a weak gag that elicits a big laugh. Now that's what I call service.
I start the day in Chelsea, at the western end of the Kings Road, contemplating a morning on the slopes. Forty-odd years ago, not far from where I'm standing now, a rabble of proto-punks started milling around a tiny boutique run by a designer named Vivienne Westwood. The World's End shop is still there, its storefront clock spinning backward, but little else remains to remind us that the swanky Kings Road was the birthplace of the Sex Pistols.
Day 3
Getting hip in East London
Today's adventure starts in Shoreditch, an East London industrial area that most people used to avoid but which now boasts the densest concentration of street art and flamboyant facial hair in the city. I exit the Old Street Tube station amid a stream of coffee-clutching humanity—employees, for the most part, of the many tech firms that have set up shop around what is now called Silicon Roundabout.
For breakfast, I pop into Passo, a new venture from the Goodlife Projects, the outfit behind London crowd-pleasers like Love Brunch, Foley's, and Rum Kitchen (a reputed favorite of Prince Harry). Billed as “contemporary LA-inspired Italian," it's a bright, airy restaurant with huge wicker lampshades and soft reggae on the sound system. I order Passo's spin on the Full English: poached eggs, Italian sausage, pancetta, tomato, mushroom, baked borlotti beans. It's a hugely fulfilling meal, but it's going to play havoc with my skinny jeans.
"East London boasts the densest concentration of flamboyant facial hair in the city."
There's time for a coffee at the nearby Strongroom Bar & Kitchen, which is now in its 20th year and has an interior adorned with original works by Jamie Reid, the artist who designed the cover for Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols.
Recharged, I keep on toward Brick Lane, which is known for having some of the best curry houses and bagel shops in town, along with a bunch of very cool galleries and shops. The centerpiece is the Old Truman Brewery, a complex of restaurants, bars, and indie retailers, including the Vintage Market, a subterranean warren of multicolored boots, psychedelic shirts, leopard-print skirts, sloganeering T-shirts, and floppy felt hats.
I could spend all day down there, but I have lunch booked at Red Rooster, so I unwind the feather boa from my neck and point myself back in the direction of Shoreditch. An offshoot of Marcus Samuelsson's beloved Harlem soul-food eatery, Red Rooster is located in The Curtain, a hip new hotel with street-style art on the walls, a heated pool on the roof, and a dogsitting service for jet-setting pups.
The restaurant's interior is an artful clutter of mismatched furniture and playful signage presided over by an unflaggingly cheerful wait staff. I order the B.E.C. Biscuit to start (with pork belly, egg, and parmesan), followed by the Fried Yard Bird, crisped to perfection and served with yams, hot honey, collards, and green beans. After a meal like that, a man should really undo his trouser button and go sit on a porch. But I'm going to go get my hair cut in a pub.
The Gunmakers, in nearby Clerkenwell, has a lot going for it: great beer, delicious food. It also has a tiny hairdressing studio in the attic. Sipping a Banana Boulevardier (bourbon and banana liqueur), I ask the owner, Tim, to give me something a little different—buzzed at the sides, shaggy on top—after which the talk turns to the collision of barbering and booze, and whether this is a good idea. “If someone comes in a little drunk and asks me to do something dramatic," he says, “I might suggest they come back another time." That said, he gives me the 'do I asked for, and everyone's happy.
From here I stroll over to Farringdon, another area that has seen a slew of hip openings in recent years. I pop into Fergus Henderson's nose-to-tail eatery, St. John, near the historic Smithfield meat market, for a cup of tea with Max Fraser, a consultant for the London Design Festival and author of several books on the subject. A local, he has offered to show me around the area.
“London has so many layers," he says, nodding at the restaurant window. “Just outside here they used to march the cattle into Smithfield, then sold them upstairs. This restaurant is built under a smokehouse. The city moves on." So do we: to The Charterhouse, a complex of buildings dating back to the 14th century. “Charterhouse is built on a plague pit," Fraser says, pointing at a patch of grass. “Now there's a Crossrail station being built here. Imagine what they found!"
From The Charterhouse, we walk past the Fox & Anchor pub, where the doors open at 7 a.m. on weekdays to accommodate the Smithfield porters who have been drinking here for generations, then make our way to St Bartholomew the Great, which was founded in 1123 and today stands as one of the finest Norman churches in England. Inside, amid the pitted pillars and Romanesque arches, is a fresh, eye-catching addition: a gilded statue of a man holding a scalpel and a pair of scissors, with his skin draped over his right shoulder. This is Damien Hirst's Saint Bartholomew, Exquisite Pain, on loan from the shark-pickling artist.
I say goodbye to Fraser and head off to the recently opened Smoking Goat, a “Nu-Thai" eatery that serves small dishes inspired by Bangkok's late-night canteens. The stripped-down dining area is jammed with a chatty after-work crowd, which makes life complicated for the servers, who bustle back and forth with plastic plates of “drinking food"—chicken hearts, Cornish octopus, beef sausage, chili fish sauce chicken wings, crispy mackerel, steamed oysters. Eating this food feels like an adventure, and not only because there's so much of it—apparently, Bangkok's after-hours diners like their snacks with a zing.
I have a comfortable bed waiting for me at The Curtain, but all that drinking food has left me wanting a nightcap. The best place to get one, I decide, is the stylish basement bar Happiness Forgets (motto: Great Cocktails, No Wallies). I plant myself on a stool and order a Two Doors Down. I don't recall what went into the drink, but I do remember that I enjoyed it, and that I was happy, and that I stayed that way long after the night had come to an end.
Women & Whisky: An exclusive tasting with MileagePlus
The night began with a cocktail hour where customers enjoyed a specially crafted Old Fashioned cocktail using TLD's not-for-sale 18 year old Blended Scotch Whisky. Rebecca Jago, Managing Director of The Last Drop, led the tasting with three of their exquisite reserves. As Rebecca guided the women through the flavors they were experiencing, she stood next to a "perfect-pour" decanter, Phoebe, "Our wonderful pouring decanter was originally developed for our 10th anniversary in 2018. She [Penelope] got her name when we joked that my mother had not poured my father a glass of whisky in 66 years of marriage, so we had to invent a machine to do it for him," shares Rebecca. "The latest, refined version is smaller, and therefore named after my daughter, Phoebe." The tasting weaved through stories of her childhood growing up with the inventor of Bailey's Irish Cream as a father, her travels searching for the perfect batch of Scotch, and the history behind each of TLD current releases that customers got to taste.
Rebecca paired each release with a canapé to complement the whiskies' complex notes, "These aren't spirits you drink every day. But you should certain drink them with pleasure and enthusiasm – cheers!" The first whisky, a 1971 Blended Scotch Whisky has spent over 45 years maturing in different woods and was paired with a Hamachi crudo, plum, umeboshi and scallion skewer to bring out the notes of stone fruits from the sherry and toasty vanilla notes from the time spent in bourbon barrels. Customers were fortunate enough to taste a very old single malt from the renowned Glenrothes distillery, a TLD Glenrothes 1968 Single Malt Scotch Whisky, a tribute to a perfect marriage of spirit and wood, matured for nearly half a century. Customers ended the tasting with a TLD Tawny Port from 1870.
United Vice President of Community Affairs, Sharon Grant, closed the event by commenting on the easiness of the night's conversation, noting how welcoming of an environment Rebecca created through her presentation of the whiskies. "I'll leave you with this," Sharon said, "As they say, a fine whisky, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation." The group applauded, exchanged business cards and said their goodbyes—it was clear that everyone left the experience reenergized to head into the next day with the support of 30 new women.
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The day off: Tampa
9 a.m.
No trip to Tampa is complete without a taste of its greatest culinary export: the Cuban sandwich. Start your day with chef Felicia Lacalle's A.M. version (topped with fried eggs and guava-glazed pork belly) at Hemingway's, in the Heights Public Market, a new food hall inside Armature Works, a cavernous 1910 streetcar warehouse.
10 a.m.
Work off the pork belly on the Tampa Riverwalk, a pedestrian and bike path along the Hillsborough River. Cross the Kennedy Boulevard bridge to the University of Tampa campus, which is known for its iconic Moorish Revival minarets (pictured), and then duck into The Shop at Oxford Exchange, a chic lifestyle boutique in 19th-century stables.
12 p.m.
The first phase of the Water Street development is the new Sparkman Wharf, where the city's top chefs serve quick bites out of rainbow shipping containers. After a brisk game of shuffleboard— Florida's official sport?—order piri piri Key West pink shrimp at Edison's Swigamajig and raw Cedar Key oysters, from just up the Gulf coast, at Boat Run Oyster Company.
2 p.m.
Spend an afternoon on the water with eBoats Tampa, which rents out eco-friendly, electric boats that drive as easy as golf carts. They're so quiet that bottlenose dolphins and manatees will often swim up to investigate.
4 p.m.
Back on dry land, hop the free streetcar to Ybor City, which once ranked as the world cigar-making capital and is still home to a slew of storefront tobacco shops. Stop into Coppertail Brewing Co. for a distinctly South Florida brew, such as the Guava Pastelitos Berliner Weisse or Captain Jack's Stone Crab Stout, infused with real crab.
8 p.m.
Dinner is a 10-minute drive away, in up-and-coming Seminole Heights, where strip malls hide inventive bars and restaurants like Rooster & the Till. The kitchen here works magic with local seafood— especially unexpected cuts such as Vietnamese-style cobia collar (pictured), swordfish belly crudo, and chicken-fried grouper cheeks and throats.
10 p.m.
Head back downtown to the Le Méridien Tampa, a hotel in the 1905 former federal courthouse and post office, and follow the glow of the uplit Corinthian columns to your room. Drift off content that you knew this future rock- star of a city before it got big.
Photo Credits: Michael Oster (Heights Public Market facade); courtesy of eBoats Tampa (boat); Images-USA/Alamy (minarets); courtesy of Tabanero Cigars (cigar rollers); courtesy of Rooster & the Till (cobia collar)
Three Perfect Days: Porto
Story by Chris Wright | Photography by Natalia Horinkova | Hemispheres April 2019
To the extent that Porto has an established global profile, it's as the gateway to the Douro Valley wine region, the home of port. But in recent years, travelers have begun to discover that Portugal's second city has so much more to offer. Sure, there's the exquisite architecture, the stunning views, the winding alleys, the Michelin-starred meals. More than all that, though, there's the communal feeling that befits a city with a population of just over 235,000. Porto has been named the top city in Europe by the European Best Destinations organization three times since 2012 and now draws 1.6 million visitors each year, but as you walk through the UNESCO-designated neighborhood of Ribeira, you can still go into a mom-and-pop café and help yourself to a cheap beer from the fridge—proving that, here at least, you can be the best while still being yourself.
Day 1
Sampling seafood, sipping port, and enjoying the views
I'm eating eggs on the deck of the Torel Avantgarde hotel, looking down on the lazy boat traffic on the Douro River and beyond to the tumbling orange rooftops of Vila Nova de Gaia, Porto's sister city across the water. Or I would be if a seagull hadn't plonked itself two inches from my face. The bird is regarding my omelet with a severe expression—whether out of envy or avian solidarity, I'm not sure. I toss a bit of granary bread over the rail, narrowly missing a nun picking cabbages in the garden next door, and the gull follows.
This won't be the only time I find myself occupying a scenic lookout. Porto and Gaia rise sharply on either side of the Douro, creating a kind of amphitheater, with each opposing district the star of the show. If you go 10 minutes here without encountering a commanding view of bell towers, palaces, and blue- tiled row houses—all tilting toward the shimmering River of Gold—then you're not paying attention.
The Douro doesn't only serve as a centerpiece for sightseers, however. Dotting the Gaia waterfront are a dozen or so rustic buildings bearing names that will be familiar to anyone who ever raided his granny's drink cabinet: Sandeman, Cockburn's, Taylor's. Snaking east into the Douro Valley wine region, the river is the source of Porto's main con- tribution to humankind: port. It also played a role in the Voyages of Discovery in the 15th century and the acquisition of wealth that followed.
“If you go 10 minutes here without encountering a view, then you're not paying attention."
My plan today is to explore Porto's seats of power— commerce, religion, wine— starting with a tour of the nearby Palácio da Bolsa, a Neoclassical edifice whose interior is a succession of lavish halls, culminating in the Arab Room, a huge, mosque- like chamber embellished with a riot of gold and blue detailing. While the design had less to do with Islam than with the projection of power, it did not go down well with church leaders. “It was meant to be a provocation," my guide tells me. “They were saying, 'We are rich, and we do what we want.'"
Compared to the Igreja de São Francisco next door, the Arab Room is a paragon of moderation. The gothic exterior of the building, which dates to the 14th century, does not prepare you for what's inside. The Voyagers brought a great deal of gold home with them, and it seems the bulk of it was applied to the inte- rior of this church. It's like the Cave of Wonders in Aladdin, with a few suffering saints thrown in. I head into the gloomy crypt, where I encounter eerily lifelike effigies, artworks with titles like Our Lady of the Good Death, and, in the darkest recesses, a window in the floor, beyond which is a mass of human bones and skulls. Lunch time!
I cross the iron-arched Dom Luís I bridge and enter Gaia, climbing up-up-up to The Blini, which was opened in 2016 by Michelin-starred chef José Cordeiro. The eatery's wraparound windows offer me my first glimpse of Porto from afar. Directly across the river are the houses lining Praça Ribeira, no two alike in color, size, or shape. This is a signature feature of Porto—the city is a captivating shamble of mismatched elements, with its crown the Baroque Clérigos Tower, which still dominates the skyline 250-odd years after it was built.
The emphasis at Blini is on seafood, with a few contemporary flourishes like “lime air" foam. The waiter asks if I'd like to do the chef's choice, and I say sure. It's a great lunch, a big lunch, a parade of courses that includes oysters with lemon butter, tuna tartare with popadam, butterfish soup topped by a huge puff pastry, and baked seabass with pumpkin puree. Between the soup and the seabass I ask my waiter if I can take a quick breather. He smiles and looks at his watch: “You have two minutes!"
“You never know whether your ascent will lead to a point of interest or someone's front door, but that's half the fun."
From here, I waddle down to the Porto Cálem port house for a tour and a tasting. Along with the musty-smelling cellars and the rows of oak barrels are a number of modern doodads, including a 5-D cinema and a guess-the-aroma sniffing station (I get one out of 12: vanilla). In the sipping room, my guide grows contemplative. “A good wine speaks to you," he says. “This is not a fairy tale. You need to close your eyes to understand the message." I'm a bit concerned about closing my eyes and not opening them again, so I sip up and head out.
A highlight of any trip to Porto is Ribeira, a squiggle of alleys lined with gorgeous old buildings, some dating to the Middle Ages. This neighborhood is not glammed-up—you're more likely to come across a physiotherapist's office than you are a fridge-magnet emporium. Look up on Rua da Reboleira and you'll see medieval battlements, but also laundry flapping in the breeze. Riverside Praça Ribeira is the most picturesque spot, with its colorful jumble of houses, but I get more joy out of roaming the alleys behind, which are so narrow at times you can touch both sides. This walk is not for the faint of knee, and it's a bit of a crapshoot; you never know whether a grueling ascent will lead you to a point of historical interest or someone's front door, but that's half the fun.
I have time for one more religious edifice before dinner, so I march upward to the granddaddy of them all: the 12th century cathedral, the Sé do Porto, a hulking mish-mash of Gothic, Baroque, and Romanesque designs whose defining feature is a brood- ing, muscular solidity, as if it were built to withstand attack. The square outside, which affords (you guessed it) wonderful views, is also overlooked by the magnificent Paço Episcopal, home to the men who wore the gold-thread vestments and bejeweled miters displayed in the church next door.
From here, I head west, pausing to look at a bunch of straight-back chairs stuck to the wall outside Armazém, a funky indoor market with a clutter of stalls selling everything from patterned tiles to a vintage Vespa. There is also a bar, where I chat with the friendly bartender, who warns me not to drink too much: “We've had a few people who bought things they didn't want."
After another precipitous trudge, I arrive at the Michelin-starred restaurant Antiqvvm, which occupies a lovely old villa near the cultivated Crystal Palace gardens. The views up here are exquisite, but you forget about that when the food arrives. My tasting menu involves a flurry of artfully presented dishes whose ingredients include scallops, shrimp, brill, pike, squid, oyster leaves, plankton, parsnip, caviar, fennel, roasted celery, and Iberian pork, all washed down with a succession of wonderful wines. Hic.
I make my way back to the Torel Avantgarde, intent on collapsing onto my bed, but cannot resist having a quick nightcap on the balcony. It's a moonless night, and I have trouble distinguishing the river from the hillside from the sky.I try to focus on a cluster of lights dancing on the water, but before long these too are gone.
Modern Love
Porto is renowned for its Baroque landmarks, but if your architectural tastes run more toward the modern, don't miss Serralves, a cultural institution set in lush, landscaped gardens in the city's western suburbs. Among the highlights are the Museu de Serralves, a contemporary art museum that was designed by Pritzker Prize–winner Álvaro Siza and opened in 1999, and the bubblegum-pink Casa de Serralves (pictured at right), a former count's villa that was completed in 1944 and is one of the few Streamline Moderne– style buildings in Portugal.
Day 2
Driving through Douro Valley and listening to fado
If there's anything that can shake the piety of Porto residents, it's pride in their beloved Douro Valley. “God created Earth," they say, “but man made the Douro." I'll be driving out to the UNESCO World Heritage region this morning, but first I have to pack up and head over to Gaia, home to the second hotel of my stay.
A luxurious, resort-like property, The Yeatman occupies a hillside overlooking the port houses, its terraced design echoing the sculpted hillsides of the Douro. I sit outside for a while, nibbling on pastries and looking down at the muddled rooftops, then head out to meet Miguel, the Tours By Locals guide who will be driving me today. “Get ready," he says with a smile. “You're about to see one of the most beautiful things in your life."
We make our way along a series of ever-narrowing roads, emerging into a landscape that doesn't quite seem real. First, the perspectives are all off, the lines of the terraced slopes meeting at odd angles, creating a geometric jumble that would do Escher proud. The vines, lit by the morning sun, appear as a Pointillist fluorescence of red, gold, and green. Now and then, the terraces dip into a misty valley, their muted colors somehow lovelier than before. Even Miguel, who up until now has been delivering a running commentary on historical treaties and grape varieties, falls silent.
A half hour later we arrive at Amarante, a pretty town on the banks of the Tâmega River. The centerpiece is the 16th-century Igreja de São Gonçalo, named after the town's patron saint. As a miracle worker, Gonçalo is said to have had a knack for fertility and virility. (The hands and feet of an effigy in the church have been worn smooth by centuries of hopeful rub- bing.) Outside, an old lady presides over a stall selling the town's signature confection: doces fálicos, anatomical cakes that, according to Miguel, “are given by young men to young women to signal their intent." Indeed.
Another scenic drive brings us to our second stop, the Alves de Sousa vineyard. We are greeted in the main building by a young man named Tiago, a fifth-generation winemaker who leads us to a window overlooking a dappled valley. Below, wisps of bonfire smoke rise through the mist (as if the place needed any more atmosphere). “You can see why we don't need paintings on the walls," Tiago says.
From here, we climb into a 4x4 and head along a narrow, rutted path. To our right is a steep, probably lethal drop, but Tiago seems unconcerned, pointing this way and that while discussing soil acidity, sun variation, and olive trees. “They were planted to mark the boundaries between vineyards," he says. “But it's been so long that people now argue over who owns the olives." It's a good line, but I'm too concerned with staying alive to laugh.
Finally, we stop at a high rocky patch they call Abandonado because the family long ago gave up trying to grow anything on it. In 2004, Tiago badgered his dad into letting him give the disused plot one last try and planted a variety of grapes that has produced some of the winery's best bottles. “It has so much character, full of love," the young man says, sip- ping a glass back at home base. “The wine from Abandonado is very special."
“The terraced slopes create a geometric jumble that would do Escher proud"
Lunch is at DOC, Michelin-starred chef Rui Paula's restaurant in nearby Folgosa. On a riverside dock, we eat crab, confit of duck leg, and Abade de Priscos, a traditional crème caramel pudding served with bacon. While much of Paula's food derives from his grandmother's recipes, he likes to throw in the odd subversive element, which he puts down to the vagaries of memory rather than new-fangled theory. “Memory is the basis for everything I do," he says. “A meal, a journey, a book—if something is beauti- ful, I put it in my head."
Our last activity of the day is a boat ride along the Douro, an hour-long trip that takes us past a patchwork of fiery red terraces and small wine houses, interspersed with the green puffs of olive trees. It's a glorious spectacle. I wonder what it would taste like.
We arrive back at the Yeatman an hour or so before dinner, leaving me with just enough time for the wine-bath spa treatment I've booked. The wine extract is supposed to relax the muscles and hydrate the skin, but, given that there's a stranger behind me massaging my head and I'm clad in nothing but a flimsy pouch, I'm just happy for its water-clouding qualities.
I'm dining tonight at the hotel's Michelin-starred The Restaurant, a gastronomic experience that starts with my napkin being deposited onto my lap with tongs and ends with a glass of prized 1955 Croft port. In between, seated before yet another panoramic window, I am served a multicourse menu that includes oysters with jalapeño foam, cockles in xarém (corn-flour mash), veal with Jerusalem artichoke, and suckling pig. The highlight for me is the chicken oysters served with crispy skin. “I'll never look at a chicken the same way," I tell the waiter, who smiles politely at the sentiment.
I end the night in the hotel lounge, serenaded by a young woman singing fado, the mournful Portuguese folk music whose dominant themes are love and loss. She clutches her hands before her chest, crooning about souls who sailed away, the golden leaves of home, stuff like that—but otherwise she seems perfectly happy. I suppose you'd have to be: As Miguel put it on our boat ride earlier, “This is where we live."
Day 3
Browsing a beautiful bookstore and witnessing the power of the sea
I check out of the Yeatman and head into town for one last bout of sightseeing, which begins in the exquisite lobby of the Infante Sagres, the grande dame of Porto's hotels. From here, I go in search of breakfast, passing the broad Avenida dos Aliados, which is dominated by the 230-foot clock tower of the Câmara Municipal. This area is littered with majestic buildings—the Teatro São João, the Igreja de Santo Ildefonso, the São Bento railway station—but I'm most interested in the Majestic Café, which promises to feed my body as well as my soul.
Which is not to say that the soul goes hungry. The Majestic opened in 1921, and beyond its Art Nouveau doorway you enter a beguiling world of carved wood, burnished mirrors, white-coated waiters, and smiling cherubs. I sit at a marble-topped table and orderrabanadas, a rich and creamy spin on French toast, and a super-sweet bombón coffee.
Buzzing with sugar, I could probably sprint to my next destination, but instead I hop on a rickety old tram, which judders toward the Livraria Lello, yet another local institution that routinely makes “most beautiful" lists. Dating back to 1906, the Lello is still the heart of the city's cultural scene, despite the hordes of Instagrammers who descend on the place today, bent on snapping the stained-glass roof, elaborate carvings, and swirling double-sided stairway. (It's so popular that there's now a €5 entry fee.) A young J.K. Rowling used to spend a lot of time here, and it's impossible not to see Hogwarts at every turn.
From here, it's a short walk to Rua de Cedofeita, a funky shopping street full of dining options such as Dream Pills (a pharmacy-themed candy store) and the Pop Cereal Café. Just up from here is Rua de Miguel Bombarda, a buzzy strip where the walls are adorned with graffiti and every other shopfront is an independent gallery. Also nearby is the Museu Nacional Soares dos Reis, with a collection ranging from 17th-century ceramics to 20th-century portraits to, um, a life-size sculpture of a horse with a wooden leg and a pair of silvery underpants hanging off its rear end.
My next stop is Restaurante Tripeiro, for a bowl of tripas à moda do Porto, the city's sig- nature dish. The tradition is said to date back to the Age of Discovery, when intrepid explorers sailed away with the choice cuts of meat and those who stayed behind got everything else. Ever since, locals have been known throughout Portugal as tripeiros, or “tripe eaters"—although the name doesn't begin to cap- ture the meal I receive at my small alfresco table. At one point, the chef comes out and I ask him what's in the bowl. “White beans, chorizo, chicken, tripe, and the end of the cow." I ask him which end and he looks at me: “Both." As I chew, an old guy walking by looks at my bowl, smiles, and says, “Bon appetit!"
I decide to burn off the offal with a stroll along the Atlantic coast, so I take a cab to Matosinhos, a fishing town a few miles north of the city, then walk south, dodging the massive waves battering the sea wall. At the end of one broad beach I find Lais de Guia, a small bar with a sea- front patio, where I stand and watch the churning water. My walk ends at Foz do Douro, a colorful district dotted with bars and restaurants. Here, next to a squat fort, I join a crowd of locals watching as the waves engulf a nearby lighthouse. “Nature has put on a show for you," one of them says.
Damp, I catch another cab back into town for a pre-prandial Negroni at the Royal Cocktail Club, a hip, low-lit bar just around the corner from my hotel. Dinner tonight is at the equally fashionable Mini Bar, the latest venture from José Avillez, who is best-known for his Michelin-starred Belcanto, in Lisbon. Seated in the corner of the red-hued dining area, chill-out music ringing in my ears, I inspect the menu, which lists a starter called Ferrero Rocher (like the chocolate). I ask the waiter about it, and he says, “We try to play with the senses. Nothing is as it seems." Out of curiosity, I order it, along with a tuna tartare temaki cone, roasted chicken with avocado cream, fish and chips with kimchi yogurt, and shrimp ceviche. After the onslaught of food I've received during my time here, I'm relieved that these are all small plates. I'm also happy to find that the playfulness of the menu doesn't come at the expense of taste. Everything—even the chocolate starter, which is actually made of foie gras—is delicious.
I end the night at Bonaparte Downtown, a lively, quirky bar filled to the rafters with bric-a-brac: tennis rackets, cowbells, creepy dolls, vintage walkie-talkies, a black-and-white photo of a chimp eating soup with a spoon. It's a fantastic place, but it's also late, and there's a large, comfortable bed waiting for me nearby. But then, just as I stand to leave, I hear the opening beats of The Clash's punk anthem, “Should I Stay or Should I Go."
The rest is a bit of a blur.
Where to stay
Torel Avantgarde
Located just west of the city center, this new boutique hotel places a premium on spectacle. Just off the bar is the Flower Room, which contains a profusion of dangling artificial blossoms, and each of the 47 guest rooms is decorated in the style of a famous artist (Poppy portraits for Andy Warhol, muted classicism for Leonardo da Vinci). If that's not enough visual stimulation for you, book a room with a balcony overlooking the Douro.From $215, torelavantgarde.com
The Yeatman
This Gaia hotel has 109 river-facing rooms, each with its own terrace or balcony. Named after a local port-producing family, The Yeatman boasts a formidable cellar, and its rooms contain subtle wine-related details. (Or not so subtle: The bed in the Presidential Suite is fashioned from a huge barrel.) Despite the luxurious spa, Michelin- starred restaurant, and elegant public spaces, the hotel's biggest selling point is its refreshingly unstuffy approach to service.From $290, the-yeatman-hotel.com
Infante Sagres
Situated in the center of Porto, this 85-room hotel opened in 1951 and immediately set the standard for luxury in the city. A recent renovation introduced a few mod flourishes—most visibly in the adjoining Vogue Café, with its “fashion fusion" food and super-stylish décor— but the old grace and glamour remain in the elaborate ironwork, stained-glass windows, gold-hued dining room, and marvelously rickety vintage elevator.From $220, infantesagres.com
Earth Day weekend getaways
Earth: San Francisco, California
The Golden Gate National Recreation Area is the most visited park in the National Park Service and not only because it's in the heart of a major metro area. The parklands extend 40 miles along the coast, both north and south from San Francisco and right into the city, with hundreds of miles of trails that show off the Bay Area's redwood forests, ocean beaches, historic buildings and other wonders. Exploring the Marin Headlands, discovering the dunes of San Francisco's Fort Funston or hiking on Sweeney Ridge near San Francisco International Airport are all worthy Earth Day experiences. Stopping by Earth Day San Francisco on April 21, is another great way to celebrate with a full day of music, kids' activities and Climate Rally speakers scheduled.
Wind: Boston, Massachusetts
Surprisingly, Boston, not Chicago, is America's windiest city year-round and spring is when it's windiest, making it the perfect place to worship the wind. You can let it power you on a Tall Ship sailing cruise from Boston Harbor. You can walk or ride a rented or bike-share bike along the Charles River Esplanade to watch windsurfers and sailboat captains carve the wind. Or you can head to Franklin Park, Boston's largest and most kite-friendly park, to teach your kids how to fly one and then visit the park's zoo where the roars of lions Dinari and Kamaia are carried through the wind all the way to the zebra exhibits.
Fire: Hilo, Hawaii
From Hilo, the largest town on “The Big Island" of Hawaii, it's only a 45-minute drive to Hawai'i Volcanoes National Park, where Halema'uma'u Crater has been continuously erupting since 2008. You can drive close enough to witness the steaming vents as the crater is visible from the park's volcanology museum. Visitors in good hiking shape may even witness lava gushing in dramatic fashion from Kilauea Volcano into the ocean. As a bonus, admission to the national park will be free on Earth Day and a free Earth Day Fair will be held for the 30th year at Hilo's University of Hawaii campus on April 20. Once you're worn out, you can explore and enjoy a white, black or even green sand beach — all found near Hilo.
Air: Fort Myers, Florida
Fort Myers is one of the top cities in the U.S. with the cleanest air (and lower pollution rates) based on the most recent two-year period studied by the American Lung Association for its “State of the Air" report. Visitors to the Gulf Coast city can breathe in the clean, fresh air — warmed to an average late-April high of 83 degrees — while raking their toes through beach sand or strolling the boardwalks of Six Mile Cypress Slough Preserve on a free 90-minute guided walk. You can also rent bikes or a kayak at Lakes Regional Park or enjoy the family-oriented Earth Day celebration on April 22 at Fort Myers' Calusa Nature Center & Planetarium. If you're feeling bold, you can catch even more air by parasailing while at Fort Myers Beach.
Water: Minneapolis, Minnesota
“City of Lakes" is more than a nickname, and Minneapolis lives up to it with 13 lakes within its boundaries, including the popular Chain of Lakes connected by recreational paths through city and regional parks. These lakes can be circled on foot, bike or watercraft; bikes, kayaks, canoes and paddleboards can be rented at Lake Calhoun and Lake Harriet. There are more “water features" too. The Mississippi River flows through Minneapolis and St. Paul and has its own recreational path on both banks. There's even a 53-foot waterfall — Minnehaha Falls in Minnehaha Park in Minneapolis. Twin Cities-area Earth Day events include the Earth Day Run from April 20-21, in St. Cloud, which drew more than 3,000 runners last year for a 5K, half-marathon and half-marathon relay — plus there's a health expo and two post-race parties.
If you go
United Airlines offers flights from U.S. cities to all of these destinations. Visit united.com or use the United app to make plans to reach your Earth Day destination.
