Conquer a Forbidden City

By Jen Lin-Liu
February 7, 2009
Hall of Supreme Harmony
Beijing's restored royal complex is immense—could there really be 9,999 rooms? Here's how to take over the formerly off-limits palace for the day.

Welcome to a secret world. For nearly 500 years, the Forbidden City's fortified walls and 170-foot-wide moat protected the Chinese imperial family from fires, invaders, and nosy Europeans. These days, a new menace lurks outside the barriers: the wrecking ball. All over Beijing, ancient hutong, or alleyways, and traditional houses with tiled roofs and courtyards are giving way to state-of-the-art highways and skyscrapers. Thankfully, the Forbidden City has not only dodged the bulldozer, it's been newly restored, from its charcoal-heated kang beds to its gold-lacquered banquet halls.

Completed in 1420 following a 14-year construction job that involved a crew of more than a million, the palace served over time as the highly guarded headquarters for two dozen emperors and their clans, many of whom rarely ventured beyond its shiny red walls. Life here was so secretive that the only commoners allowed in were servants and guards, along with a large coterie of concubines and eunuchs. (As the personal attendants of the rulers, the eunuchs had what many Chinese considered the best jobs, and some became extremely wealthy.) The imperial stranglehold on power came to an abrupt end in 1912 when revolutionaries stormed the Forbidden City and forced the emperor, 6-year-old Puyi, to abdicate. Some saw the downfall coming: During Puyi's coronation at the age of 3, he threw such a tantrum that Chinese nobility considered his rule cursed.

To visitors, the Forbidden City can seem every bit as daunting to navigate as a menu crowded with Chinese characters at a Beijing noodle restaurant. There are supposedly 9,999 rooms spread out over 178 acres, nearly half of which are open to the public. (The rulers of heaven were believed to dwell in a palace with 10,000 rooms, so the Forbidden City was built with one chamber less as a sign of respect to the gods.) If you love dragon-shaped door knockers, hidden passageways, and imperial backstabbing, devote a full day to prowling the complex.

There are several different ways to dive in. After paying the entrance fee ($6 in winter, $8 in summer), the directionally challenged should consider renting an audio guide for $5 at the Meridian Gate, the main entrance to the inner city. The machines use GPS technology to lead you on a two-hour tour highlighted by plenty of soap-opera-worthy dish. (In 1900, for instance, the ruthless Empress Dowager Cixi ordered the drowning of the emperor's favorite concubine, Zhenfei, in a well now named for the victim.) Or you can hire a licensed English-speaking guide (groups of up to five pay about $30 for one hour, $60 for two and a half hours). Wandering on your own is also a fine option; there are signs in English throughout. And we've made it easy by zeroing in on 10 of the most intriguing sites (see our map here).

At day's end, 9,999,999 snarling dragons later, take in the view of the Forbidden City from the roof­top bar of the fabulously mod Emperor hotel next door (33 Qihelou Lu, 800/337-4685, designhotels.com, from $160). Perch on a chrome stool, sip a rice-wine martini, and bask in the clash between new and old Beijing.

GETTING THERE Round-trip flights between New York and Beijing cost about $920 on Continental (continental.com). Beijing taxis are very affordable; a typical ride across town is about $3 to $5. You can also take the subway to the Tiananmen West or Tiananmen East stops for 40¢.

WHAT TO PACK One of the best guidebooks on the palace is The Forbidden City by Antony White, a British art historian. It has an easy-to-follow map and the full scoop on the architecture, the objects, and the strict rituals of imperial life.

SOUVENIR A silk scarf adorned with ancient brush-stroke paintings found in the Forbidden City, available for $44 at the palace gift shop.

WHERE TO SPLURGE Treat yourself to dinner just steps from the Forbidden City at Maison Boulud, Daniel Boulud's new restaurant, located in the 1903 American Legation building, which housed the first U.S. embassy in China. The four-course prix fixe menu includes duck foie gras, red-wine-braised short ribs with ravioli, and almond mousse for $63—a fraction of what you'd pay at Boulud's famous New York outpost, Daniel (23 Qianmen Dongdajie, 011-86/10-6559-9200, danielnyc.com/maisonboulud.html).

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8 Over-the-top, Sexy Hotels

On Her Majesty's Secret Service The Cold War may be over, but there's still something about putting on a tight gray suit or mod dress and slinking through the chilly, glittering streets of Moscow that will always evoke sexy foreign intrigue. Whether you choose to play CIA, MI6, KGB, or even a double agent (you bastard!), the Hotel Baltschug Kempinski, a five-star luxury palace on the banks of the Moskva River, is for you and your partner.Taken over by the state tourist agency during the Soviet era, it was remodeled in 1992 to reflect the "new era of prosperity and luxurious living." The Baltschug remains a luxurious spot that would be convenient for meeting your handler (or . . . tour guide) in Red Square before repairing to the "Kremlin Suite" to develop your microfilm. When the free world is once again safe, why not repair to the Bar Baltschug for a cigar and a vodka? The menu lists 60 different kinds of Russia's favorite booze, but we recommend a classic martini, twist of lemon, shaken not stirred (from $333). Spanish Castle Magic Castillo de Monda, near the rustic Spanish coastline and in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada range, is old. We're not just talking "Julius Caesar once hung out there" old—we mean "Phoenicians strolled these grounds" old. It's changed hands many times over the years and was used as both a shelter and a fort while the Catholics and Moors struggled for power. Now restored and converted after four centuries of disrepair, this modern bed-and-breakfast makes an unpredictable place for an interlude. Even if you fail to set your lover's world on fire, you can lie there under the stone roof and console yourself with the reminder, "Okay, that was bad, but not torture, confession and forced-religious-conversion bad." Get up, splash some water on your face, and go stare at the dungeon (from $145). Your Space or Mine? Spendy romantics have been putting money toward theoretical trips into outer space for nearly a decade now, but the proposed 3 billion dollar/three-room hotel, Galactic Suite Space Resort, ups the ante. Designed by aerospace engineer Xavier Claramunt, the pod-shaped suites are projected to travel around the Earth every 80 minutes (going faster than 16,000 miles per hour). The cost? About $4 million for a "stay" of four days, so we're hoping that includes fresh towels and turndown service by an actual Wookiee. Assuming everything goes well, this short escape from the Earth's atmosphere will allow you and your lover to swoon over 15 romantic sunrises per day, and maybe even engage in some zero-gravity hijinks. The pods aren't even set to orbit until 2012, so you'll have at least three more years to save up for the ultimate un-cheap date. Shanghai Surprise If for no other reason, the altitude will make a night at the Grand Hyatt Shanghai one to remember. Occupying the 53rd through 87th floors of the city's Jin Mao Tower, the rooms are high enough that you might even think you're seeing a little slice of heaven (or maybe just a clean spot above the city's smog). For a cocktail in dramatic surroundings, reserve a table at the circular Cloud 9 lounge, which has 360-degree views. Here, you and your sweetheart can look down on the world and say, as the Chinese do with increasing regularity, "One day all of this will be ours." And years down the road, if the excitement starts to fade, you can console each other with the thought that you once did it 800 feet up. Then call a lawyer (from $202). Dutch Treat: Bedding Down in Amsterdam Room 702 of the Hilton Amsterdam is where newlyweds John Lennon and Yoko Ono held the first in a series of "Bed-Ins for Peace" in 1969. Between 9 a.m. and 9 p.m., reporters clamored to be the first into the suite, assuming that the honeymooning Ono-Lennons, who had already appeared naked on the cover of their joint release Two Virgins, would be engaged in a naked, febrile, Vietnam-protesting, 12-hour-long clinch for the cameras. The reporters were disappointed to find the long-haired activists in crisp, white pajamas, smoking cigarettes, and musing aloud about Bagism, their self-invented philosophy. In the parlance of the time, what a drag. If you and your date would rather not commit to staying in bed all day, the city and its gorgeous canals, Rembrandts, and van Goghs are all just a quick stroll outside (from $218). Midnight at the Oasis It used to be that in order to achieve the kind of expat chic cultivated by literary icons like longtime Morocco residents Paul and Jane Bowles, couples had to put down that Pottery Barn catalog, get off the couch, and actually leave the country. These days, your own personal Tangiers can be had much closer to home. Korakia Pensione is a faux-Moroccan villa built in 1924 for the painter Gordon Coutts (a Scotsman who traveled through and painted the deserts of North Africa). Over the years, guests as fabled as Errol Flynn and Winston Churchill have relaxed in the shade of olive trees and date palms and allowed the calming fountains' trickling to soothe their skull-melting hangovers. True to the spirit of Old Morocco, the Korakia (Greek for "crow") offers an afternoon tea service but no in-room TV or phone access (they're both "distractions"). There is Wi-Fi "to keep you connected to the outside world," but short of that, you and your partner in soul-searching are on your own. Children under 13 are not allowed (from $159). Okay, But Only Because You're the Last Man on Earth Swatches, impenetrable bank accounts, instant cocoa—the Swiss have made many indispensable contributions to global culture. But the Null Stern (Zero Star) Hotel, fashioned from a nuclear bunker beneath the small town of Sevelen, about 70 miles southwest of Zürich, is unlikely to inspire copycats. Still, the notion of a hot night in a former atomic-blast-proof facility will certainly appeal to those into (extremely) safe sex. Brothers and artists Frank and Patrik Riklin have converted a seldom used fallout shelter and old concrete-walled factory into a high-concept lodging, with screens in lieu of a view (live footage from outside is projected onto the walls to create mock windows). While you and your partner survey the modest but certainly novel accommodations (a bargain at about $9 a night), you can imagine that civilization has been destroyed and it's up to you to repopulate the planet (come on, like you haven't used that line before). After opening for a trial period, during which it saw only a dozen guests, the Zero Star is scheduled to open more widely soon. Check the town's website for updates. Fashion, Sweetie Have you ever had the desire to pose your partner on a funky divan or a glossy, antique desk and pretend that you're in the middle of a photo shoot? London's hyper-styled but relatively affordable Pavilion is a 30-room town house full of meticulously designed themed suites with names that include Enter the Dragon, Better Red than Dead, and Casablanca Nights. The rooms have hosted photo shoots with stars like Kate Beckinsale, Jarvis Cocker, Naomi Campbell, and Bryan Ferry—stylists love the outrageous surroundings (leopard print, red velvets, gold, vintage furniture) and everyone else likes the room rates. Many are well under $100, which means you won't have to overdraw your account just to keep the glamour alive (from $86).

Play in an Ice Palace

I've never been a fan of the cold. As a kid, my favorite part of skiing was the hot chocolate, and I relished blizzards for the snow days, not the snowball fights. So when I booked a trip to the Icehotel in northern Sweden, my family and friends were amused—and a bit concerned, especially when I got sick days before my flight. "You can't go to the Arctic with a cold!" my mother admonished. But I had good reason for wanting to sleep in a glorified freezer: As an environmental reporter, I was curious to see a place where people have turned snow and ice into a moneymaker, one that's spawned copycats in frigid spots from Canada to Romania. Conceived by Yngve Bergqvist, a river-rafting guide who wanted to lure visitors to the Arctic north during the winter, the Icehotel started out in 1990 as nothing more than a crude igloo. Now, it's a fanci­ful ice castle that's rebuilt every November with an unparalleled level of artistry—which explains why each winter 16,000 guests pay hundreds of dollars a night to sleep on a slab of ice and thousands more make the trek just to tour the rooms for the day. The 30 most elaborate suites are the handiwork of a team of artists—sculptors, painters, architects, even comic book illustrators—many of whom have never worked with ice before. Wielding chain saws and chisels, they spend weeks crafting frozen furniture while electricians install lights to provide an ethereal glow. Surreal? Exceedingly. This winter, German furniture maker Jens Paulus and American industrial designer Joshua Space created a space-station room straight out of Star Trek, with giant carvings of the sun and moon on opposing walls and twinkling lights in the ceiling. British decorator Ben Rousseau and graffiti artist Insa devised the Getting Cold Feet suite, with oversize high-heeled ice shoes beside the bed. Twenty-nine unadorned snow caves offer a somewhat less pricey and more purist experience. Since no hotel would be complete without a bar, the artists also sculpt a chic space where guests can warm their innards with an Icebar Jukkasjärvi, a mix of vodka, blueberry liqueur, blue curaçao syrup, and elderflower juice, sipped from a cube-shaped ice glass. Then there's the chapel, where designs etched into the ice walls resemble stained glass. About 150 couples tie the knot here each year, some brides bundled in snowsuits, others dressed in white wedding gowns, their teeth chattering as they recite their vows. When I arrive in Sweden, I'm surprised to find that the guests actually spend a lot of time in a pair of heated chalets that look like life-size gingerbread houses. The shower and bathroom are located in the one nearest the hotel—because, really, who wants to sit on a frozen throne? And the other contains the restaurant, where chef Richard Näslin dreams up such intriguing dishes as arctic char ice cream, which has a slightly salty, smoky flavor and is much more delicious than it sounds. After my dinner, wrapped in several layers of fleece and down, I waddle out to a tepee for a folk concert by native Laplander Yana Mangi. At the end of each song, the crowd responds with a uniquely Arctic ovation: muffled mitten clapping. My suite has a nautical theme, with walls curved into a frozen wave and an oval bed of bluish ice set beneath a clam-shaped headboard. Topped with a mattress and a reindeer skin, the setup looks snug. Almost. The temperature is a brisk 23 degrees Fahrenheit, and I'm still petrified I'll lose a finger to hypothermia, even in my head-to-toe winter wardrobe. I climb under the furry blanket, making sure not an inch of skin is exposed. Then I gaze through the slits in my microfleece face mask and marvel at the stillness. My breath comes in shallow white puffs. Soon, I'm fast asleep. The next thing I know, a hotel attendant is standing beside me with a cup of steaming lingonberry juice—my wake-up call. Amazingly, I slept through the night, giving new meaning to the expression "out cold." I wiggle my fingers and toes—they're tingly, but all there. Then I do what any sane person would: sprint to the chalet to thaw out in the shower and sauna. Most guests stay only one night, but I opt for a second. It's not to prove my mettle; I feel as if I've done that. Rather, I find my frosty alcove incredibly restful and therapeutic. Maybe the hotel should add an ice yoga studio next? Jukkasjärvi, 11 miles from Kiruna, 011-46/980-66-800, icehotel.com, from $400 for a snow room, from $535 for an art suite, both include breakfast and sauna. GETTING THERE A round-trip flight between New York and Stockholm on SAS costs about $700 in midwinter (flysas.com). From Stockholm, take a 16-hour train ride to Kiruna (from $44 round trip). The Icehotel is a $13 bus ride away. WHEN TO GO The hotel opens every year in early December and closes at the end of April. You have a chance of spotting the northern lights in December and January, but those are the coldest months—temperatures can dip to 45 below. WHAT TO PACK Think wool and fleece layers; avoid cotton, which can trap moisture and make you colder. The hotel supplies boots and hats. For details, see icehotel.com/winter/adventure/dress. WHERE TO SPLURGE Don't miss the guided hotel tour ($37 per person). And how about an ice-sculpting lesson ($75 per person)? Or a six-hour snow­mobile safari to see moose at their winter feeding grounds ($400 per person)? WHERE TO SAVE Tour the Icehotel by day, and then spend the night at Hotel Kebne in Kiruna (011-46/980-68-180, hotellkebne.com, from $100).

Scale a Volcano in Ecuador

My little brother and I are in Ecuador to celebrate a historic date: This year, he's exactly half my age. Joseph, my father's son from a second marriage, was born when I was a senior in high school, and now he's a senior in high school. He's 17, a star chemistry student and punk rock drummer in Arkansas. I'm a novelist in San Francisco and the old man at 34. I'm excited to introduce Joseph to the thing I love most in the world—travel—with no dad along playing the mother hen. But here we are in the capital city of Quito, and I'm turning into a mother hen myself: My inclination is to make sure Ecuador is tinted, filtered, and cooled down before it hits him. This clearly can't last. Our plan is to hike El Altar, one of three volcanoes in Sangay National Park, a nearly 1,000-square-mile preserve in the Andes. The other two, Tungurahua and Sangay, are constantly erupting. (We like a challenging hike, but we don't dodge lava.) El Altar is extinct, and amateurs can scale it to a certain height without the use of hard-core gear like cables or crampons. Plus, it's June, so the weather should be dry. Known as Capac Urcu, or Almighty Mountain, in the local Quechua language, our volcano has nine jagged peaks rising between 16,500 and 17,500 feet that are arrayed like guard towers around a mile-wide crater lake. The Spanish, who ruled the country for almost 300 years, thought the mountain resembled a cathedral—hence its name. Among its peaks are Bishop, Great Nun, Devout Friar, and Tabernacle. There won't be any summiting for us—only pro climbers get that far. We're shooting for the lake, which (at about 14,000 feet) is no stroll around the block. It's almost as high as Mount Whitney, the tallest peak in the contiguous U.S. The main trick to any high climb is acclimatization, the $5 word for getting used to not having enough oxygen. Luckily, the cities of the Andes are so elevated that just sitting in them does the job. Joseph and I poke around Quito for a couple of days, happily exploring the jacaranda-shaded plazas and 16th-century churches of the colonial Old Town. In the evenings, we tap our feet to live jazz bands and sip caipirinhas at El Pobre Diablo. (Dad, if you're reading this, Joseph had only one drink, I swear.) We definitely feel the effects of the altitude: Even on small hills, we get winded and have to stop to catch our breath. Each time, I wonder how we're ever going to make it up the volcano. On our third day, Joseph and I take a bus south to the town of Riobamba, our launchpad for the hike. At Café Concert El Delirio, a restaurant in a stucco house where the revolutionary Simón Bolívar wrote a famous poem, we share a wonderful traditional Ecuadoran dish called arroz con camarónes (shrimp and rice cooked in a flavorful sofrito and served with avocado slices). Then it's back to our hotel, La Estación—clean and quiet, if not terribly memorable—for a 10-hour pre-trek rest. I wake up without feeling I need a shot of oxygen from an inhaler. Taking this as a positive sign, we hire Napoleon, the hotel owner, to drive us to Hacienda Releche, a guest ranch 15 miles away, where the trail to El Altar begins. Napoleon is short and thickly built like his namesake, and he's all smiles in his Levi's and blue baseball cap. He thinks it's just great that two American brothers are exploring Ecuador together. And he's so excited to be our impromptu guide that before we know it, we've taken at least 10 interesting detours. We see where lava from the 2006 eruption of Tungurahua mangled a bridge. We stand under a century-old avocado tree and meet a group of octogenarian potato farmers. Napoleon notices that my brother is feeling sick (although he doesn't realize it's due to his driving) and whisks us off to his weekend home, where he yanks a weed and boils it into a soothing tea. He quizzes us about our family, complains about corruption in Ecuadoran politics, gives us two pounds of raw cane sugar, and finally delivers us to Hacienda Releche, in the town of Candelaria, at about 1 p.m. The hike up is supposed to take two days: one to get to El Refugio, a set of five cabins owned by the hacienda that sit just below the crater, the second to reach the lake. According to Napoleon and our guidebooks, we should be able to make it to the cabins in four to five hours, meaning we'd arrive by 5 p.m. or 6 p.m. if we left right away. Or we could stay the night at the ranch and set out in the morning. I could read War and Peace on the veranda. My brother could go for a walk. We could play cards by the fire and get some sweet country sleep. We gaze up at the mist pouring off the surreally green mountains and the impossibly steep farms, which look like Nebraska would if a giant balled it up like a bedsheet. Now that we're finally here, I want to start climbing immediately. "What do you think?" I ask Joseph. "Let's do it," he says. The woman at the hacienda doesn't think it's a great idea but hands me a ring of keys for El Refugio anyway. I ask her which cabin to sleep in, and she says it doesn't matter because the setup is unstaffed and there are no other guests tonight. Any tricks to getting there? "Todo a la izquierda," she says. Stay to the left. "Do you want mules?" she asks. My brother and I laugh. This is a hike—why would we want mules? Starting out, we notice right away that the trail is actually a cow and mule path, and it's sopping wet. So much for this being the dry season. Footing is unpredictable. Sometimes the thick mud withstands my weight; other times, I get sucked shin-deep into the muck, and the freezing water brims over the tops of my hiking boots. To top it off, our backpacks are weighed down with nonessentials: cameras, extra clothing, War and Peace. After 20 minutes of tough slogging, we reach a marker that says El Refugio is...another seven and a half miles away. Joseph remains in good spirits. He bounds up the foggy hill and laughs when he falls. But several hours later, his pants and boots are soaked and his humor is fraying. I start to think about the things we should have done, like buy rubber boots in Riobamba and leave our big packs at the hacienda. And we should have stayed put for the night, maybe gotten to know the mules a little better. We break for a lunch of sweet rolls, apples, and a fresh, salty cheese called Andino that tastes a bit like feta. Resting on giant rocks, we try a Zen approach: El Refugio is where it is, and we'll get there when we get there. With new pep, we set off, marveling at the gorgeous canyon far below us and—in the occasional clearing of fog—the solitary cows on the hillsides. We pass a cowherd bouncing down the trail bareback on a mule. And every so often we hear the rumble of Tungurahua clearing its throat. If only I'd bought those rubber boots.... The refrain keeps going through my head. Hours later, my legs are caked with mud, and we haven't caught a single glimpse of El Altar. I know we didn't take a wrong turn, because there are no turns—just the same trail, zigzagging through the hills like a saw blade. Even though it's only 5 p.m., the light seems to be waning; I expected us to have at least a couple more hours of daylight. Feeling nervous, I take the lead and set an unforgiving pace. Joseph lags behind. And then he takes off his backpack and heaves it onto the trail. "You don't want your bag to get all wet," I scold him. "It's too heavy," he replies. We sit down to nibble on some of Napoleon's sugar. Suddenly, as if a switch is thrown, the fog lifts and the blue sky and bright sun glisten. We look out on the vast riverbed below us and then up through the steaming valley at an austere snowcapped ridge. "Capac Urcu," I say, awestruck. My brother snaps photos like crazy. "Would we call this volcano almighty?" he asks. "I think that qualifies," I say. He puts down the camera. "But it doesn't look very close." Ecuador, of course, is on the equator, where the days and nights are roughly equal in length. That means sun­down is not at 8 p.m. or even 7 p.m.—it's at 6:30 p.m. I can add another item to the list of stupid mistakes I've made today. "I've got an idea," I say, trying to sound cheery. In truth, my heart is racing. "Let's drop our big packs here and go find the cabins. We can come back and get them." I calmly put a few cookies and bananas into my day pack and tuck some bread and yogurt in my cargo pants. There's no way we're coming back for these bags tonight. We may never see them again. Soon it's pitch-black, and I wonder if this is what disaster is like: anxiety (are we doomed?) accompanied by mundanity (the sound of our boots plopping through the mud). I can see the headlines: "Older Brother to Blame in Puma Attack!" or "Mummies Really Dead Americans!" We keep seeing what we think are cabins on the hills in front of us, but when we get closer, we realize they're boulders. A light rain begins, and we stop to rest in the shelter of a tall, flat rock. "This wouldn't be the worst place to sleep," I say. Joseph is no longer speaking. But on we march. And on and on, until out of the darkness, a cluster of handsome little wooden houses appears right next to us. El Refugio. It's a surprisingly well-built camp. Even though our cabin lacks electricity and sheets—thankfully, we didn't ditch our sleeping bags—it has a kitchen, two fireplaces, and even hot water. We take showers, build a fire, and prepare a big spaghetti dinner. The beds are so much more comfortable than that rock would have been. Outside the front door in the morning, we finally can see where we are. The boggy dreamscape of the Collanes Valley is at our feet, and waterfalls tumble down mountain ridges on either side of us, forming dozens of creeks. Cows meander, chewing grass. The air smells as if it's been scrubbed clean. There aren't any other people up here today, and if it weren't for these cabins, I'd wonder if we were the first to ever make it this far. After a breakfast of bananas, yogurt, and instant coffee, we set off, plenty early this time, hopping over streams and spooking the cows. The crater looks close, but the walk across the meadow feels endless—it's an enchanted carpet that keeps extending before us. We stick to the left, as advised, and after about an hour reach the trailhead for the steep scramble up to the lake. In no time, we've climbed about 1,000 feet in elevation, stopping every few minutes to breathe and admire the amazing views. From this vantage point, El Refugio looks miniscule and the valley shoots out behind it like a green slide, twisting for miles all the way back to the Hacienda Releche at the bottom. Finally, huffing and puffing, we arrive at the crater rim, 14,000 feet above sea level, and look down into Laguna Amarilla, or Yellow Lake, which is actually more of a gray-green giant. We try to count El Altar's snow-covered peaks and identify the Great Nun, Tabernacle, and Bishop, but we can't see all of them in the swirling fog. Wind blows out of the crater with the roar of a jet engine. Joseph isn't given to spontaneous displays of excitement, but he reaches over and gives me an enthusiastic high five. "We made it!" he cries. He then carefully clambers down the slope to feel the ice-cold water with his fingers, and I sit on a boulder in a field of wildflowers to take in the craggy mountains encircling the lake. Every mud-filled step has definitely been worth it. Not only does my brother seem to agree, he's speaking to me again. GETTING THERE A round-trip flight between Miami and Quito in March costs about $450 on LAN (lan.com). The four-hour bus trip from Quito to Riobamba is $3.75 one way. WHEN TO GO Ecuador's dry season runs from about May to September. Although the skies are usually clear, be prepared for any kind of weather in the mountains. WHAT TO PACK A sleeping bag, hiking boots, waterproof pants, and a parka are musts. Rubber boots are definitely a good idea and are sold in Riobamba for $8. TOUR OPERATORS Julio Verne, a Riobamba-based company, leads three-day trips up El Altar with horses, equipment, meals, and English-speaking guides (Calle El Espectador 22-25 at Ave. Daniel Léon Borja, 011-593/3-296-3436, julioverne-travel.com, $240 per person). SOUVENIR A llama figurine carved from a tagua nut, the seed of a palm prolific in Ecuador. WHERE TO SPLURGE Celebrate completing the trek with a salt and volcanic ash exfoliation at the spa resort Luna Runtun in Baños de Agua Santa, a one-and-a-half-hour bus ride from Riobamba (Caserio Runtun Km. 6, 011-593/3-274-0882, lunaruntun.com, rooms from $207, exfoliation $55). LODGING La Estación Unidad Nacional 29-15 at Carabobo Rd., Riobamba, 011-593/3-295-5226, $15, includes breakfast Hacienda Releche and El Refugio Candelaria, 011-593/3-294-9761 or 3-296-0848, $12 per person. Meals are included at Hacienda Releche, but not at El Refugio—you must bring your own provisions. Reservations recommended FOOD Café Concert El Delirio Primera Constituyente 28-16 at Rocafuerte, Riobamba, 011-593/3-296-6441 ACTIVITIES Sangay National Park parquesangay.org.ec, $10 NIGHTLIFE El Pobre Diablo Isabel La Católica E12-03 at Galavis, Quito, 011-593/2-223-5194, elpobrediablo.com, cover from $5

Inspiration

Witness a Total Eclipse

When the moon slides between the earth and the sun at just the right angle to create a total solar eclipse, astonishing things happen: "As the sun disappears, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck," says Vicki Buchwald, a dental hygienist from Crystal Lake, Ill. "I've cried and screamed. It's like looking into the eye of God." She and her husband, Greg, an electrical engineer, have traveled to see five eclipses and can't get enough. Let others chase tornadoes or the northern lights; for these fans, there is no better show, and the next one to catch is July 22 (July 21 if you're in the South Pacific). What makes this eclipse extraordinary is that it'll create the longest stretch of darkness in the daytime that the planet will see for more than a hundred years. Even though it takes about three hours for all the phases of an eclipse to unfold, totality (when the moon entirely blocks the sun) is stunningly brief. This year, it'll last up to 6 minutes and 39 seconds. The next one to come close isn't until 2132. Of course, being in the right place at the right time is key. As July's occurrence travels from India to the South Pacific, it will be visible along a 150-mile-wide swath. Since eclipses are lengthiest at the midpoints of their routes, the prime viewing destinations this summer will be on the coast of eastern China, a day trip from Shanghai. There, you'll see how local perceptions have also come a long way: What was once considered a bad omen is now cause for celebration. Eclipse viewing 101 No matter how well you plan, catching an eclipse is a game of chance—clear skies are hard to predict a week ahead, much less months in advance. Nor does it help that the event takes place during monsoon season. Uncontrollables aside, here's how to maximize the marvel: Reach for higher ground Head to a roof or a mountain to get away from buildings and ambient light that interfere with visibility. Wear protection It's safe to look at the sun only when it is completely obscured by the moon. Staring at a partial eclipse with the naked eye can give you retinal burns and even cause temporary or permanent blindness. Regular sunglasses won't protect you, so play it safe and wear a pair of eclipse-viewing glasses—they may look like 3-D movie specs, but they actually contain specialized filters (seymoursolar.com, shades $1.50). Snap away Regular digital and film cameras are fine for capturing the event, as long as you place a filter on your viewfinder to shield your eyes while shooting the partial stages (rainbowsymphonystore.com, filters from $10). For best results, use manual focus, turn off the flash, and remove the filter for totality. First-time viewer? Put down the camera and just take it in. Be at ease Since you'll be staring skyward for hours, bring along snacks and a pillow or a folding chair. Then get comfy. Let them take you there These outfitters are offering expert-led eclipse trips in July: TravelQuest International has a 15-day cruise through the South Pacific with lectures by Harvard astronomy professor Owen Gingerich and former editor of Sky & Telescope magazine Rick Fienberg (800/830-1998, tq-international.com, from $6,995 without airfare). Spears Travel hired NASA astrophysicist Fred Espenak to head a 10-day trip from Beijing to Shanghai, with stops at the Forbidden City, the Great Wall, and the cities of Suzhou and Hangzhou. On July 22, the group will be in the seaside town of Haiyan, on a hotel roof directly in the path of the eclipse (800/688-8031, spearstravel.com, from $3,695 without airfare). Ring of Fire Expeditions called on Paul Maley, expedition coordinator for NASA's Johnson Space Center Astronomical Society, to guide a 10-day journey through China and Tibet. The itinerary includes a ride on the Xining–Lhasa train, a visit to the Wolong panda reserve, and an eclipse-viewing at a spot determined by Maley on the day of the event (281/480-1988, eclipsetours.com, from $3,789 without airfare).