Southern Café Stewed Apples

By By Jane and Michael Stern
July 27, 2006
From "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food"

Excerpt from "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food" by Jane and Michael Stern. Copyright © 2005 by Jane and Michael Stern. Reprinted with permission by Houghton Mifflin Company. Buy the book from amazon.com

We always liked apple pie, apple crisp, apple dumplings, and apple brown Betty, but we hadn't encountered side dishes of stewed apples until we ate in the South.

The ones we had in our Virginia breakfast were a revelation, and since then we have come to appreciate fully the luxury of tender, long-cooked apples as a great companion for pig meat--country ham, pork chops, even barbecue--and especially as a sweet balance for bitter greens or tangy green tomatoes on an all-vegetable plate.
 
4 tart apples (Rome or Granny Smith), cored, peeled, and sliced into chunks no larger than 1 inch
 1 1/2 cups water
 1/3 cup light brown sugar
 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
 1/4 teaspoon salt
 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

Combine all the ingredients in a medium saucepan. Stir well and cook at a low simmer for 30 to 45 minutes, stirring frequently, until the apples are tender but not falling apart. Serve warm or hot.
 6 SERVINGS

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Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food

Excerpt from "Two for the Road: Our Love Affair with American Food" by Jane and Michael Stern. Copyright © 2005 by Jane and Michael Stern. Reprinted with permission by Houghton Mifflin Company. Buy the book from amazon.com Our first date was over a white clam pizza at Pepe's Pizzeria on Wooster Square in New Haven, Connecticut, and it was instantly apparent as we gazed into each other's eyes across the thin-crusted Neapolitan pie, speckled with tiny, tender clams and frosted with olive oil, that we shared a passion for garlic. Our initial lust for each other was fueled by an orgy of lobster rolls, split hot dogs, Yankee Doodle Double Dandy Doodle Burger cheeseburgers, calzones, and cannolis. Michael had won a Woodrow Wilson Fellowship at Yale, where we had both gone to study art, so we had plenty of money to spend exploring restaurants up and down the Yankee shore. Compared to the average grad student, he was a high roller with a monthly stipend to squander. He also possessed what was, to Jane's New York City sensibility, an amazing status symbol: a car. At twenty-one, Jane had not yet learned how to drive. The car was our ticket to romance and to eating adventures. The fellowship money was diverted from expensive textbooks and art museum field trips to fund a comparative study of the differences among pizzas as made by Pepe's, Sally's, and the Spot in the old Italian neighborhood, as well as the Greek-style pizzas at Pizza House, which was less than fifty yards from our apartment. If pizza was our major interest,we minored in fried dough at summertime fairs, clams and chowder and lobsters all along the coast, and Yorkshire pudding at Mory's, the Yalie dining club, where it was still possible to have a completely gelatinized meal, from aspic to Jell-O. Nearly every day, Michael had a choice to face: a seminar in medieval imagery in a dank basement lecture room in New Haven or a trip to the Rhode Island beaches with Jane for a shore dinner and a hot fudge sundae on ginger ice cream? Our passion for each other, and for finding things to eat, won out every time. We were married in 1970, and a year later we got our degrees, which meant that the fellowship-subsidized grad school eating bonanza was coming to an end. It was the worst of times and the best of times. We moved to a little shack in the woods of Guilford, Connecticut, where we didn't even have a telephone. We were hiding out from life. Jane's mother and father died of cancer within a year of each other. Her stepfather disinherited her. Her two favorite cousins died, and her aunt was institutionalized. In despair, Jane made the fifteen mile drive into New Haven three times a week to stare at the index cards in the Yale Employment Center. Michael spent his time cultivating and smoking cannabis. After tens of thousands of dollars were spent on our highfalutin educations, we realized we had little interest in pursuing what we had studied. And so we did what generations of writers have done before us. We hit the road. The difference is that when we did so, we had no idea that we were to become writers. We just wanted to get away from everything. We proposed a book about truck-stop dining to a young editor, who thought it was a cute idea and gave us the princely advance of $2,500.We thought we had won the lottery. But after signing the contract to write the book, we froze. Who were we to write about food, even truck-stop food? Where did we come off, telling people what was good to eat? Our shared mental image of a restaurant critic was gleaned from old movies: a patrician fellow with a silk ascot, his pinkie in the air and a sneer on his face. Somebody like Vincent Price but soured with indigestion. Restaurant critics were gourmets, and gourmets ate such grotesque things as creamed snails, sick-looking liver pâtés, cheeses that smelled like feet, and odd organs from inside unusual animals. In our mind's eye, gourmet food was joke food, like what you might be forced to ingest during a fraternity hazing. We preferred hamburgers, mashed potatoes, and apple cobbler. The notion that we had promised our publisher to write a coast-to- coast guidebook was overwhelming. We had pretty much not gone anywhere at all. We had no knowledge of exactly where these marvelous truck stops were, scant experience writing, and no money beyond the first half of our advance. We sat together at the kitchen table of our $99-per-month cabin trying to figure out what to do. The one-room shack where we lived might seem romantic if you saw it in the movies, but in real life it was hideously uncomfortable. After living there for nearly a year, we discovered a case of decomposing dynamite in the crawlspace above the ceiling, left behind by a 1960s radical who was a former tenant. The gas stove was so old and decrepit that it once combusted and singed Jane's eyebrows off as she checked on a roasting chicken. This home of ours was a good incentive for getting on the road. We agreed on a plan: we would review every restaurant in America. This seemed not the slightest bit of a stretch to us. Not having traveled much, we looked at the Rand McNally map spread out on the kitchen table and could plainly see that America was a manageable place, no more than a foot and a half in length, composed of pretty pastel-colored states balanced on one another like building blocks. Strategy well in place, we launched into part two of the plan: buying a suitable car for the journey. Just as buying a new handbag has always been Jane's favorite antidote for whatever ails her, buying a car is Michael's solution to just about any problem. Even Sigmund Freud would blush at the patent sexual symbolism of both objects, but we were too young and dumb to notice or care. At a nearby car dealership, we met a salesman whose necktie we remember to this day, more than a quarter century later. Somehow this guy had managed to knot it absolutely flat, so that its front apron cascaded directly from his collar with no lump whatsoever, sort of like a sheet of molten polyester. As we told the salesman our needs and he touted the glories of the new '75 Chevy line, we paid far more attention to his neckwear than to vehicular statistics. When we finally stopped marveling at it and told him our budget, he became significantly less chummy, got up from his desk, and led us around to the back lot, where the less alluring and less expensive used vehicles were kept, out of sight of new-car shoppers. He pointed to a pre- owned Chevrolet Suburban. It was vomit green--the barf of someone who lived on frozen peas. Several body panels had been painted in a shop that didn't worry too much about matching the factory-original metallic color, so it had become a kind of rolling ode to all possible avocado hues, including even black (the hood). It was huge and it was ugly, something like a cross between a World War II tank and an over-the- hill Brady Bunch station wagon. Jane grimaced at the sight of it. Michael tried to convince her that it had a rugged look, befitting the intrepid travelers we wanted to be. He lifted the hood and looked at the engine, pretending to know what he was inspecting. And just to show the salesman that we were no patsies when it came to purchasing a roadworthy vehicle, we both walked around and kicked all four tires. They didn't pop on impact, but neither did any of them appear to have a lot of tread. One thing the car had in its favor was vast amounts of room inside. To save money in our travels, we planned to camp out in it, forgoing motel rooms. "I'll sew curtains and we can hang them on the back windows for privacy," Jane said optimistically, never having sewn anything in her life. "And it does have two air conditioners," Michael noted. "We won't be hot!" By the time we wrote the check, we were convinced that this heap would be a rather deluxe residence on wheels for the next two years. The following morning, on the way to the grocery store, the left rear tire blew. And that summer gas prices doubled. We faced the first big gas crisis in a vehicle that got approximately eight miles to the gallon. Jane had plenty of time to sew curtains for the back windows, because five months into the research for Roadfood, we had not yet left Connecticut. In fact, we hadn't even left New Haven County. Yale had trained us to be meticulous in our research, and, ever the diligent academics, we commenced work on the guidebook by picking up the local Yellow Pages and opening to "Restaurant." We began with those starting with the letter A. We ate at the Acropolis Diner and made notes about the good souvlaki. We went to Addie's Café, where we didn't much care for the hash browns, then on to Angela's Pizzeria, where we thought the pepperoni pie was better then the sausage, and Archie Moore's tavern, where the beer inevitably distracted us from our mission of sampling the menu. At the end of five months we had gotten to Donat's, an overreaching French restaurant where rich professors ate, and had yet to travel more than twelve miles from home. We envisioned the millennia that stretched out before we began reviewing restaurants in, say, Kansas. Something was wrong with our plan. "People will not take us seriously if we haven't eaten everywhere," moaned Jane, who, like so many writers, lives in constant fear that someone will discover she doesn't know everything--or anything at all. "Tough shit," Michael responded. Jane thought he had a point. We sat down at the kitchen table again, scrutinized the map, and came up with a new plan. With a Magic Marker we drew a squiggly continuous line through forty-eight states. It would take a full two years and countless tanks of gas to travel this route, but at least we would finally get on the road. We would see all the pretty pastel states and eat in every one of them. The new plan in place, we went shopping for supplies. We loaded the cavernous green Suburban with inflatable mattresses, sleeping bags, mosquito netting, snakebite kits, and everything else two urban Jews who had never slept anywhere but in a bed figured they would need to camp out. "No!" Michael railed as Jane insisted on buying tin plates, a small Coleman stove, and a stack of collapsible cutlery. "We are going to be eating in a dozen restaurants every day," he said. "The last thing we're going to want to do when we make camp is cook another meal." Jane added a portable oxygen tank to the stash of material, because she was convinced that she would not be able to breathe in mountainous states like Colorado. We were good to go. We spent a whole day packing the Suburban with supplies to take us across the country and through all seasons. The lumpy calico curtains Jane had sewn for the back-seat area made the car even uglier, if that was possible. We turned the skeleton key in the lock of our cabin door and drove away. We sped west out of Connecticut over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. First stop: early lunch in a diner. Ahh yes, a New Jersey diner! What could be a more excellent start to our adventure? Sadly, the food was mediocre; the mashed potatoes were made from a powdered mix. When we asked the waitress what kind of pie there was, she answered, "Red." Sure enough, the slice we got was sweet translucent red mucilage without even a hint of fruit. We got off the Jersey Turnpike a few exits farther south and found a place called Nature's Cupboard. It was a vegetarian restaurant run by Woodstock alumni, and it smelled more like Nature's Locker Room. We didn't bother to order, just turned around and headed south again. After three more unproductive stops at highway exit ramps, where we found rubbery chicken croquettes, a desiccated Philly cheese steak, and cardboard- crusted pizza, our enthusiasm was waning. By the time we got to Maryland, it was suppertime. We decided to spend our first night on the road at a place called Jellystone Park, one of a national chain of campgrounds that feature a goofy image of Yogi Bear to welcome visitors. For a few bucks paid to a lady at the gatehouse, we were directed to a small plot of turf where we were told to park and set up. The gatekeeper knew of no restaurants anywhere near the park, but she did direct us to a convenience store, where we bought readymade ham sandwiches on white bread, bags of potato chips, and cans of soda, which we ate sitting in the front seat of our car in the store parking lot. We drove to our spot at Jellystone Park to bed down for the night. The place was filled with families in oversized motor homes with small cars attached to the back. Their immense recreational vehicles sprouted TV antennas and had golf carts and lawn chairs lashed to the roof. Many of them were plastered with decals proclaiming their owners'membership in the Good Sam club, meaning they were certifiably nice people--good Samaritans--who would pull alongside a wounded or disabled fellow traveler to offer help. On the backs of some of the big rolling homes, the owners had their names painted in florid script, generally using the errant apostrophe so common on mailboxes everywhere: "The Smith's: Bill and Edna." The RV community took one look at our overgrown station wagon and turned their backs on us. They may have been Good Sams to one another, but we were clearly not in their league. We didn't have a real motor home with a television and kitchen and wall-to-wall carpeting, and besides, the curtains Jane had stitched were flagrantly homemade. They hated us. We hated them. "Don't you just know those stupid Winnebagos are going to be clogging every superhighway from here to California," Michael groused, imagining us at the end of a long line of motor homes traveling at thirty miles an hour from coast to coast, staring for weeks at the ass end of "The Smith's: Bill and Edna." It was at that moment that we vowed to travel only on back roads--a spur-of-the-moment decision that determined the path for our eating career. The RV camp-out was the longest night of our lives. We tossed and turned on the clammy rubber air mattresses. The Suburban, which had seemed so big when it was empty, came to feel as claustrophobic as a mummy's sarcophagus. Despite the mosquito netting, which had a habit of getting tangled around our legs, we were soon swatting at bugs the size of velociraptors, and when we had to pee in the middle of the night, we were too afraid to make the trek to the Jellystone restrooms, lest a bear eat us. Despite all our snakebite kits and collapsible silverware, we had forgotten to take along a flashlight. We left at dawn in despair and sold all the camping junk at the first pawnshop we saw. Back in our newly roomy car, we drove away from that first unpleasant night on the road with our culinary dreams dashed. We meandered south along back roads, finding nothing notable to eat. At twilight we were so tired that we pulled into the first roadside motel that didn't look as if Norman Bates was the proprietor. Entering our unit, as the motel-keeper referred to the room, we blinked in awe at the modernity of a television set and a tiled shower stall, feeling a little like Ishi, the Stone Age tribesman wandering out of the woods into civilization for the first time. We slept wonderfully, and when the sun rose in the morning, we were so happy not to be surrounded by huge, hostile motor homes, we even thought our Suburban looked rather sleek and handsome. We pushed an eight-track Merle Haggard tape into the slot, and as Merle serenaded us with songs of workin' men, we cruised in the direction of the nearest little town on the map, at least ten miles away from the interstate. It was a pretty south Virginia hamlet of clapboard houses with broad front porches. The rising sun cast the long shadows of ancient oak trees across tidy front lawns. An old man wearing overalls sat on a wooden chair and waved at us as we drove by his porch. We passed children riding their bikes in what we assumed was the direction of the schoolyard. We were traveling at bicycle speed ourselves, just taking in the sights. "I smell biscuits," Michael said, leaning his head out the open window and driving where his nose led him, toward a storefront café on the main street. Outside, the pickup trucks of customers were lined up on a diagonal, along with two local police cruisers. Pansies spilled forth from the bright blue flowerboxes under the café windows. There was not a single out-of-state license plate on the vehicles in the street except for ours. Despite the ache of hunger, we hesitated as we stepped from our car into the street. This was the mid-1970s, and according to Easy Rider and Deliverance, it was them against us, and everyone who wasn't us was a redneck with a shotgun aimed in our direction. At this point, no one would have mistaken Michael for a local farmer. His hair grazed his shoulders and he wore wire-rimmed glasses like John Lennon's. Jane's outfit included an embroidered peasant blouse with jangling earrings. We would have gone unnoticed at any eastern college campus coffeehouse, but suddenly we were nervous about going inside. Our growling stomachs got the better of us. On the back wall, coffee cups hung on a pegboard, each one marked with the name of the customer to whom it belonged. A dozen men in work clothes sat at a big round table right at the front of the café, drinking from their personalized mugs, looking out the window, commenting on who was driving past, and trading news. Seated at other tables, men and women chatted back and forth to each other as in a home kitchen. As the door swung closed behind us, all conversation stopped. Every person in the café looked at us. We froze as they looked us up and down. In that long, long moment, we couldn't help but notice the thick oval plates of ham and eggs and hot biscuits in front of nearly everybody in the place. The smell of peppery cream gravy, salt-cured country ham, and fresh- brewed coffee made us dizzy with hunger. Still, we didn't dare make a move. "There's two seats over there," a waitress called to us from behind the counter. We sat down fast on a pair of chrome-banded upholstered stools at a marble counter so old that it seemed to have an even row of indentations where decades of elbows had rested. Two nonpersonalized coffee cups were placed in front of us, already filled and with a spoon plunked in each, ready to stir. Slowly the hum in the room began to increase as the breakfasters reanimated. The waitress stood before us, order pad in hand. "We don't get too many strangers passing through here since the interstate was built," she said, apparently aware of our discomfort. "We just ain't never seen y'all before." Minutes after we ordered, the empty counter space in front of us filled with thick partitioned plates made of unbreakable blue plastic, the big partition holding ham and eggs, the two smaller ones containing grits and stewed apples. Four hot biscuits loosely wrapped in wax paper were nestled in a plastic basket. Little dishes held pats of butter, and glass ramekins were filled with wine-dark cherry preserves. Sold in Mason jars by the cash register, they were made a few miles away. As we ate, we picked up the eight-page local newspaper that a previous counter-sitter had left behind and read all about the potluck dinner that the Baptist church was having and about the damage done to Elroy Schmidt's mailbox when the school bus accidentally backed into it. We read the frantic letter asking anyone who had seen Buck Thompson's bluetick hound to please call the sheriff. We ate until blissfully satisfied, and as we rose to pay at the cash register, a man also walking up to pay his bill stood aside, tipped his cap, and politely allowed Jane to proceed ahead of him. His harshly lined farmer's face and sweat-darkened mesh work cap had seemed ominous when we entered, but this courtly gesture and his soft "Morning, ma'am" made us realize how off-base our fears had been. Out in the street, three other men were staring at our license plates. "Connect-tee-cut," one of them said out loud, impressed by the jawbreaking complexity of our home state's name. "That is some fine vehicle," another said to Michael, who repressed the urge to sell him the Suburban on the spot. "Thanks," Michael said. "And that's one nice café you have here. Good breakfast." "You come back soon," they said as we got in and turned the key in the ignition. We looked at each other and smiled. The biscuits and country ham had left a glow on our taste buds, and our spirits had been warmed by the community of people we had stumbled into. We gazed at the map of the U.S.A. with the squiggly route we had drawn all over it. The long line no longer seemed like a daunting task. Now it was a wide-open door. Hungry for more, we drove on.

10 New York Fashion Favorites

Fashion Walk of FameIn 2000, some 75 industry leaders voted to honor eight great designers--Geoffrey Beene, Bill Blass, Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Rudy Gernreich, Halston, Claire McCardell, and Norman Norell, with a sidewalk plaque in the Garment District. Today, there are 24 plaques, each featuring a sketch by a designer anda note on his or her contribution to fashion. Walk on the east side of Seventh Avenue (a.k.a. Fashion Avenue) between 35th to 41st Streets. Look down and you'll see a series of white bronze plaques honoring fashion's greatest stars. 212/398-7943, fashioncenter.com. Metropolitan Museum of Art Costume InstituteThe Met has an extraordinary collection of more than 80,000 costumes and accessories from five continents and as many centuriesthe largest collection of its kind in the world. Items range from an intricate early 1620s French doublet to a 1927 House of Chanel coat to Miguel Adrover's dress I Love New York (2000). Pieces from the permanent collection are incorporated into several exhibitions each year. While the Institute was founded in 1937, it was legendary fashion maven Diana Vreeland who brought vision to its exhibitions, creating such important shows as "Hollywood Design" (1974) during her tenure as a special consultant (1972-1989). 1000 Fifth Ave., 212/570-3908, metmuseum.org, $20 recommended admission, closed Monday. Prada Flagship StoreThe store is a high-tech pricey, 25,000-square-foot fashion temple that's been likened to a museum. Opened in 2001 in the same SoHo building that housed the Guggenheim Museum's downtown annex, the Rem Koolhaas-designed space is anchored by a round elevator, a giant zebrawood wave, and a rotating stage. Even if you can't afford a $400 Prada belt, take a gander at the magical, sliding glass changing-room doors, which act as one-way glass mirrors, frosting over from the outside while remaining clear from the inside. 575 Broadway, 212/334-8888, prada.com. The PointAt this West Village yarn boutique, you can learn how to make your own gorgeous creations, such as scarves. More advanced classes will teach you about cable stitches and more. No time for a class? Then peruse the beautiful nubbly skeins of hand-dyed yarn and enjoy tea and cupcakes at The Point Knitting Café. A one-week class starts at $50, which includes yarn and needles. 37a Bedford St., 212/929-0800, thepointnyc.com. Girls Love ShoesHeaven in heels. Zia Ziprin's vintage shoe store is stocked with more than 2,000 pairs, half of which are for sale. The other 1,000 she rents to designers and photographers. Her shoe archive, featuring features fabulous footwear from 1800 to the 1990s, will make any shoe lover swoon. An appreciation of classics runs in the family--Ziprin's hippie mom had a vintage store in the same neighborhood in the 1960s. 85 Hester St., 917/250-3268, glsnewyork.com, closed Monday to Wednesday. Garment Center Walking TourSince the 1930s, the bustling Garment Center (between West 35th and West 41th Streets, between Fifth and Ninth Avenues) has been the center of the women's clothing industry in the U.S. It's full of factories, designer showrooms, and wholesale fabric and trimming stores. Shop Gotham's friendly, informative tour takes you behind the scenes at wholesale showrooms, sample sales, hidden fragrance importers, and handbag designers; savings can reach as high as 80 percent off retail prices. The shopping-heavy tours, which top out at 12 people, last about three hours. 212-209-3370, 866/795-4200, shopgotham.com, $65, Wednesday and Friday. Juvenex SpaWhen you feel fantastic you look fantastic, and this hidden Koreatown oasis is just the spot for some affordable pampering. Rejuvenating remedies from around the globe are administered 24/7. Even world-weary spa vets get slack-jawed over its Jade Igloo sauna. Just $65 buys four-hour access to the sauna and tubs, a diamond-shaped glass steam room with Chinese herbal infusions, a detox sauna made of yellow clay, and a soaking saturated with ginseng, seaweed, or tea. Massages from $75 for 30 minutes. 25 W. 32nd St., 5th Fl., 646/733-1330, juvenexspa.com. New and Almost NewMaggie Chan handpicks every accessory and piece of "slightly used" clothing she sells in her Nolita designer consignment and resale boutique. She refuses to stock trendy items and focuses solely on well-made classic formal and casual wear that's affordable (there's virtually nothing over $300) and that never goes out of style. The shop's popularity ensures a constantly changing inventory. Look for monthly sales, when Chan reduces her already low prices by 20-50 percent. 166 Elizabeth St., 212/226-6677. FemmegemsIt's fun to flash fabulous baubles, but it's even more satisfying if you've made the jewelry yourself. In late 2002, Lindsay Cain, who used to make her own versions of designer jewelry, opened a cute store where other DIY types could unleash their own mix-and-match styles. Cain supplies everything you need, including unique beads and semiprecious stones, and sells designer creations, too. Necklaces from $50, earrings from $20, individual stones from $4. 280 Mulberry St., 212/625-1611, femmegems.com. Bar 89Still cool after all these years. A longtime model hangout that's worked hard to earn its reputation as one of SoHo's best bars and bistros. The black-and-white minimalist decor is accented with eclectic art, fruity cocktails, and heaping plates of yummy nachos (proof that models do eat!). The kitchen stays open daily to 1 a.m. The see-through unisex bathroom doors are a must-see. 89 Mercer St., 212/274-0989, bar89.com.

Trip Coach: July 25, 2006

Budget Travel Editors: Welcome to this week's Trip Coach. Let's get to your questions! _______________________ Las Vegas, NV: We would like to visit Turkey. We are wondering if we would be better off (financially) to tour on our own, or take one of the many tours available. We can't afford a high end tour. We would like to stay in quaint places, and see the major highlights as well as funky fun places. (The problem with tours is being stuck with slow people and having to eat meals you don't want, go places you don't necessarily care about). Looking at going next Spring-- what is your take on how safe it is for Americans? Budget Travel Editors: Turkey is truly a fascinating destination--a real crossroads, and it can be very affordable. And while we can't make any guarantees, it's generally considered safe for westerners. In fact, Istanbul is a very western/international/cosmopolitan city. Turkey's also been working hard to make itself attractive to the European Union in hopes of becoming a member, so visitors get to reap many positive benefits of those efforts--better infrastructure, international signage, etc. Regarding whether to tour on your own or with a company, it's really up to you. I might suggest if it's your first time to Turkey to do both--a short escorted tour (with highlights that interest you), followed by independent time on your own with extra nights at a place of your choosing. You might consider getting off the beaten path to say, Cappadoccia, with an escorted tour, and then creating your own itinerary for Istanbul. There are parts of the country where it'll be more advantageous to travel with a guide who knows his/her way around. That said, I suggest you look into what Foreign Independent Tours has to offer. The company specializes in that part of the world and has an excellent reputation with vetted ground operators. And keep in mind, if you're not in the mood for sightseeing or a group dinner, you can always bow out. For more information on Turkey, I also suggest perusing the highly informative TurkeyTravelPlanner.com. _______________________ Chicago, IL: My friends and I will be taking a 7 day Greek Island cruise in two weeks. We plan on staying two extra days and would like to go to Florence for a day. What is the best route to Florence from Venice? What sights can we see in one day as we must return to Venice for the return flight home. Thanks Budget Travel Editors: The best/easiest route/way between Venice and Florence is by train. The trip takes about 4 hours, and is quite scenic in parts. When in Florence, I suggest seeing the Duomo (main cathedral); the Ufizzi Galleries and the great works of Botticelli and other masters; the Ponte Vecchio bridge; and the Boboli Gardens. The Palazzo Vecchio and the Pitti Palace are both fascinating in that you get a glimpse of how the Medicis lived, and then there are smaller points of interest, like Brunelleschi's beautiful "minimalist" church in the Altrarno, Santo Spirito, the bronze wild boar at the Porcellino market (whose nose you rub for good luck), and the ancient, narrow Estruscan street of Borgo Pinti. I also happen to be a fan of the gorgeous, colorful (and recently restored) frescos by Beato Angelico in San Marco church. Of course, you can't miss the David and other works by Michelangelo at the Academmia, either. As you might have noticed, it's hard to prioritize! I might start with the Duomo, a walk down shop-lined Via Cazaiuoli to Piazza Signoria, go to the Uffizi Galleries, then head to the market, and then over the Ponte Vecchio bridge and have lunch on the much quieter (and more charming) other side of the Arno River, followed by a stop at Piazza Santo Spirito, and then a walk in the Boboli Gardens. If you have time, then poke your nose in the Pitti Palace, and then hit the Academmia and San Marco on the other side. Piazza Santa Maria Novella, adjacent to the train station, also has a very important fresco by Masaccio--The Trinity--the first painting to ever show perspective. _______________________ Chula Vista, CA: I've been to Europe once and I did the Eurail-backpacking combination with 8 others. However, this time around, I'd like to rent a home or condo on the Italian coastline. In a previous issue, you had mentioned 5 towns within walking distance of each other that had villas for rent, but I don't recall the names of those towns! We plan on going next August...please help! Jennifer Budget Travel Editors: Here's a link to our article called "Villa Rentals Around the World" -- it lists a great number of agencies that rent homes, condos, villas, etc. in Italy, and beyond. Perhaps you were thinking of another story, but there's no mention of the 5 towns you can walk to....However, I suspect you're thinking of Cinque Terre (literally, "five lands") five small villages on Ligurian coast that are connected by goat paths (and accessible by train). _______________________ Avondale, AZ: I am planning a trip to southern Spain this November and would like to take the ferry to Morocco for a few days of sightseeing. Are the ferries safe/reliable, and is it safe for a single woman to travel alone in Morroco? Budget Travel Editors: Morocco is definitely a growing must-see destination--particulary thanks to its convenient proximity to Spain's southern tip and the easy ferry access. The U.S. government does recommend caution in traveling there ever since a series of terrorist bombings in 2003, but Americans weren't the specific target. The country also has its standard amount of petty crime like pickpocketing, etc. If you're sticking to the main cities of Casablanca, Marrakech, or Tangier, you should be fine as American and European visitors are more and more a commonplace. Just be sure to follow obvious safety precautions (don't carry lots of money, stay in well-lit and populated areas, etc.) and blend in, which means dressing conservatively and keeping covered up. There's no need for a headscarf, however. Moroccan men have been known to catcall, but the best response is no response. Also, don't expect to get access to any mosques as they're generally limited only to Muslims, unlike in other countries where tourists are sometimes welcome. As for the ferries, they run regularly from Algeciras, Spain, to Tangier or Ceuta in Morocco; Tangier provides better access to other public transportation around the country. _______________________ Lima, OH: We are going to Nashville in August and would like a list of things to see. We have tickets to Opry and will be staying at the Gaylord. Anything else of interest? Thanks, Karen Budget Travel Editors: If you're going to the Grand Ole Opry (or Nashville in general), then we assume you're into country music. One quirky option for getting to know the city's musical roots is the NashTrash tour (800/342-2132, nashtrash.com, $30). Led by the frizzy-haired Jugg sisters, the 90-minute tour--aboard a bright pink bus--passes by all the quintessential country music landmarks (Wildhorse Saloon, Printers Alley, the Country Music Hall of Fame, etc.). In the evening, head back downtown to check out live music at classic honky tonks like Tootsies Orchid Lounge (422 Broadway, 615/726-0463, tootsies.net), The Stage (412 Broadway, 615/726-0504), and Wildhorse Saloon, which offers popular country line dancing lessons (120 Second Ave., 615/902-8200, wildhorsesaloon.com). For shopping, most folks head to the Hillsboro Village area, but fuel up before you go at Pancake Pantry (1796 21st Ave. South, 615/383-9333). And if you're there the last weekend of the month, don't miss scouring for finds at the massive flea market located at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds (tennesseestatefair.org). _______________________ Wheaton, IL: We're looking for a budget trip to see fall color out east. Any suggestions? Budget Travel Editors: One of Vermont's most idyllic corners is the "Northeast Kingdom," the counties of Orleans, Essex and Caledonia, distinguished by sleepy towns, dense forests, and placid lakes. The Federal-style, family-run Inn on the Common in historic Craftsbury (75 miles east of Burlington), will place you in the heart of the kingdom. Rooms are on the pricier side, starting at $185, but are well worth it if you're up for a splurge. Cheaper rates (doubles from $95) can be found at the four-room Riverbend B&B in the tiny town of Troy, where there are trails for horseback riding and hiking and the nearby Missisquoi River for canoeing. For more suggestions, read our fall foliage guides for Vermont, Maine and Connecticut. We also recently ran a Real Deal on a five-night foliage cruise in New England and Canada from $599. _______________________ New York City, NY: I would like to enjoy a language (Spanish) immersion program in Costa Rica. I would want to stay 3-4 weeks and see as much of the country as well. Any ideas? Howard Budget Travel Editors: One of the more reputable Spanish-language schools in Costa Rica is Forester, which can arrange for homestays in addition to classes, and also organizes excursions. The school is located just outside of downtown San José, the capital of Costa Rica. A week of classes, as well as a homestay with a local family, including two meals daily and laundry service, costs from $450, and weekly prices go down the longer you stay (up to four weeks). For courses that also feature excursions, weekly rates start at $525. Both types of study leave your weekends free to explore. Forester Instituto Internacional, fores.com _______________________ Columbia, MO: I am trying to plan a destination wedding on a budget. I would really like to go somewhere tropical-- do you have any suggestions of places to go that are easy and affordable? I would be leaving from either St Louis, MO or Kansas City,MO in March or April. Thanks for your help! Budget Travel Editors: Congratulations on your engagement! Now, the work begins...Many of Mexico and the Caribbean's biggest resort groups--Breezes, Couples, Superclubs, Sandals --offer "free" weddings. In exchange for paying for room and board (and often a minimum-stay requirement), resorts will often throw in a wedding, which can be a huge money-saver.If large resorts are not your style, then you'll want to look into individual properties that cater to destination weddings. For ideas on where to plan your destination wedding, check out The Most Romantic Resorts for Destination Weddings, Marriage Renewals & Honeymoons by Paulette Cooper and Paul Noble or The Destination Wedding Workbook by Paris Permenter & John Bigley.We've written quite a bit about this topic: check out our article on destination weddings.Also, on August 22, Paris Permenter and John Bigley, who wrote "The Destination Wedding Workbook" will be our Trip Coach guests. They'll answer destination wedding questions from noon to 1pm ET. So check back then! _______________________ Sheboygan, WI: We would like to take a road trip through Nova Scotia. Can you give us some guidelines as to a good time of year to travel there and greatest things to see? Budget Travel Editors: Nova Scotia's summer--and main tourist season--is from early July to early September, when the daytime temperatures are often in the upper 70s. Since the province is surrounded by water, expect showers no matter what time of year you're there. Nova Scotia has at least 10 scenic drives that are ideally suited for road trips; one of the most acclaimed routes is the 175-mile Cabot Trail loop within the Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The province's official tourism company (800/565-0000, novascotia.com) lists these scenic route, with maps and descriptions of the attractions and regions passed along the way. The same information is also available in booklet form that can be downloaded or mailed to you. _______________________ Abington, PA: My wife and I are taking a cruise to Alaska from Vancouver and will disembark in L.A. The cruise company informed us that they charge $25 per person each was for the airport terminal transfers. Is this a good deal? It is my understanding that Canadian Customs can be bypassed if one is going to the cruise terminal. Does that apply to those who use local transportation? Or do you have to be picked up by the cruise company bus? Budget Travel Editors: You can take a taxi from the Vancouver International Airport to the Canada Place cruise ship terminal for about $18-$22, which is significantly cheaper than the $50 per couple your cruise company charges. Taking a cab, however, means that you can't bypass Canadian customs--passengers who skip customs have to be transported directly to the terminal on a special "sealed" bus managed by the cruise line. Vancouver airport's expedited service only works with specific airlines and cruise companies; if you want to use the service, be sure check with your reservation agent to make sure you are eligible. When you dock at L.A.'s San Pedro pier, a taxi to the airport should put you back about $50-$54. _______________________ Budget Travel Editors: Thanks for all your great questions. See you next week! _______________________

How Josh Berman Got His Awesome Job at Level 1 Productions

BT: How did you get your awesome job? Josh: I started my company, Level 1, out of my dormroom at Dartmouth College back in 2000, to put together ski videos for fun while I was recovering from a knee injury that kept me sidelined from competition. I certainly never planned on making a career out of it, but that first project received good feedback and interest from both the ski industry and distributors who would encourage me to make another video in what was my last year in school. Even when I graduated I didn't think it was going anywhere, but felt obligated to give it another year or two to see how things played out. Five years later we're certainly not some large operation with an office staff and interns running around making coffee (we do have one!), but with the help of a few others, Level 1 churns out some of the most progressive, well respected, and best selling ski films in the world. BT: What do you love most about your job? Josh: What I love most is that my job is ultimately a creative outlet. It certainly forces me to be assertive and log considerable time on the business and logistical side of things, but ultimately I'm producing a film that is my creative vision, a story representing the past winter's biggest and best skiing exploits, as I see it. In addition to that, it's truly amazing to see the affect that my films have on people. To know that what I'm doing is directly affecting and inspiring a new generation of skiers all over the globe blows my mind, and really makes me strive to push the limits of what's going on in ski film production. BT: What advice do you have for someone who wants to do what you do? Josh: First and foremost, make sure you're passionate about it, because it's honestly not half as glamorous and exciting as it would appear, and most people that get their feet wet in ski filmmaking don't last because they're not willing, able, or prepared to put up with all the trials and tribulations that come with the territory. Beyond that, study and practice photography before you try to get too heavily involved with filmmaking. Cinematography is ultimately taking 24 still images per second (or 30 with video), so if you don't have the basics of good shot composition, framing, and lighting down for the purpose of taking one still image, you can't likely expect to get great images out of a 16mm film or video. Lastly, nothing is ultimately more valuable than experience, so spend as much time as possible immersing yourself in whatever it is that you want to do. BT: What the worst job-related travel experience you've ever had? Josh: Traveling in Europe for five weeks with 200+ pounds worth of equipment during the winter of 2005 comes to mind. For one, European society is just not designed for excess in any capacity, whether it's small hotel rooms, cars that won't fit large gear bags, or airlines that levy insane fines for overweight baggage. I spent a few weeks shooting in Switzerland, and had booked a separate flight on KLM through Northwest Airlines for a side trip up to Norway. I went over everything in great detail with the agent I spoke to, who assured me that there would be no problem assuming my two checked pieces weighed in at under 70 pounds. Upon showing up at the Geneva airport, the folks at KLM laughed as they insisted that I was limited to a total baggage weight of 20kg, and promptly tallied up charges for over $1,500 for my bags, one way, on what was originally a $300 ticket. Another $1,200 tab on the return flight ensured that I'll never fly Northwest or KLM ever again! BT: How has your job changed the way you travel? Josh: The amount of traveling I've done over the past few years has certainly made me more savvy on how to find deals, how to stretch a dollar, and how to get the most out of everything a particular place has to offer. Moreover, it has also made me realize that having a connection to someone indigenous to the region you're visiting adds so much to the experience. It's nice to be a tourist in the traditional sense, but knowing someone that can really show you around will often expose you to the local culture, people, and places in a way that's infinitely more valuable and enriching.