Eat Like a Local: Tel Aviv

The two 24-year-olds, who live in a small town in Idaho that's actually called Small, planned on traveling in the fall. "My only experience out of the States was four hours in Niagara Falls," said Beth, "which I don't think really counts." Sara's lone venture overseas was a three-week trip last year to London and Paris. "I just want to go back," said Sara. "And I want Beth to go because it's so exciting and so different." They had their minds set on England, but hoped to see Scotland and Ireland, perhaps Italy. "We'll have to face the real world when we return," said Beth, who wants to be a social worker, while Sara plans on a career as a fire ecologist. Money was their biggest concern. "The funds are looking slim," said Beth. They had a budget of $2,000 per person, not including airfare. "We'll stay in hostels and are willing to camp--anything to save a few bucks if that means we can travel more. We're trying to go for at least four weeks, but we're not coming back until the money runs out." Beth and Sara are flying into London, and we recommended two hostels in the city: the HI City of London hostel, near St. Paul's Cathedral, and The Generator, an 800-bed independent hostel near the British Museum. Hostels aren't the only option, however. Bed-and-breakfasts are everywhere in Europe, including big cities such as London, where a double can cost as little as $50. Hundreds of B&Bs can be found on official tourism sites, such as visitbritain.com and ireland.ie, as well as independent sources such as bedbreak.com and (for Italy) bbitalia.it. Rooms in private flats or homes are sometimes even more affordable. (Local tourist offices usually keep lists.) Another possibility is couchsurfing.com, a network of travelers looking to crash for free on strangers' sofas. "I think we'd be willing to give that a try," said Beth. "I'd love to see a play in London," said Beth. "How far ahead do you have to get the tickets?" Penny-pinchers buy seats at the very last minute, when they're discounted up to 50 percent at the TKTS booth in Leicester Square. There's no telling what'll be sold out, but on the day we checked, the hits A Few Good Men ($41), Twelfth Night ($27), and Phantom of the Opera ($70) were available. London is perhaps the best city in the world for free museums and sights. A section of visitlondon.com lists all the spots offering free admission, including the British Museum and the National Gallery. Plenty of activities are free, too: attending sessions of Parliament in Westminster; hearing classical concerts at the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields; hanging around Hyde Park's Speaker's Corner on a Sunday to listen to anyone with a gripe, anecdote, or political point harangue the crowds. "I loved shopping in London," said Sara. "There's nothing like it--especially not in Idaho!" Beth and Sara will go on the hunt for souvenirs at the city's markets, including Petticoat Lane (daily except Saturday), and the half-dozen loosely connected flea markets known as Camden Markets (daily). After London, Sara and Beth will use rail passes to explore England and Scotland (see Surprise! on p. 20). On long-haul journeys within Europe, flying is the least expensive option, thanks to no-frills airlines such as Ryanair and EasyJet. "I've heard that they say the fare is $40," said Beth, "but then charge $100 in taxes. Is that what it's really like?" Taxes and airport fees usually add on a reasonable $10 to $30 each way. None of the Ryanair flights we suggested will bust the girls' budgets: Edinburgh to Dublin for $28, Dublin to Rome for $48, and Pisa back to London for $28. The only complication is that low-cost carriers have strict baggage limits and charge steep rates for excess luggage, so we warned the women to read the fine print and pack light. Using BritRail passes, Sara and Beth will head to Bath, where they can indulge in their shared obsession. "We're both big Jane Austen fans," admits Beth. "It's sappy, but true." Austen lived in Bath for several years, and on Saturdays and Sundays the Jane Austen Centre runs walking tours past the settings in Persuasion and Northanger Abbey. Rather than focusing on the cities as on her last trip, Sara was intent on "getting out into the countryside to see what the locals are like, and see landscapes." Beth wholeheartedly agreed. "We're bringing our hiking boots," she said. We knew just where they should point those boots: the Lake District of northern England. It's one of Britain's premier walking destinations, mixing beautiful hills with the occasional ancient Celtic site or medieval castle. And the next country inn or village pub is never more than a couple of hours' hike away. Continuing up into Scotland, Beth and Sara will poke around Edinburgh for a few days and then get back into the great outdoors. "You can only take so many castles, so many museums," said Beth. Inverness is a good home base for the Highlands, and walking.visitscotland.com gives the details on hundreds of treks. They might take an easy 7.5-mile walk through farm country to Dochgarroch, or tackle part of the 73-mile Great Glen Way, which skirts several lochs (including Loch Ness). Next up is Ireland. "Bike rides would be wonderful," said Beth. "We always ride our bikes around town." The parkland called the Burren, in the west-coast county of Clare, is a fine place to ride. The Burren Way, a 26-mile trail through sheep-dotted fields, winds south from the town of Ballyvaughan, where bikes rent for $17 a day. They could pedal all the way to Doolin, a crossroads hamlet with wonderful pubs and some of the best traditional music in Ireland. Beth and Sara wanted to see the big sights in Florence and Rome, but what really got them excited was when we mentioned the Cinque Terre. The five fishing villages north of Pisa are connected by narrow trails and draw thousands of casual hikers in the summer months, but autumn should be quieter, not to mention cooler. The smartest approach is to take an early train to the northernmost village, Monterosso al Mare, and hike through vineyards and olive groves. If they time it right, by sunset they'll be strolling into the southernmost town, Riomaggiore, home to cheap rooms and a pebbly beach. During our first conversation with Beth, it was obvious she was worried about how much she didn't know. "I just haven't researched as much as I should," she said. There was no need to stress. Backpackers who seem to know everything and plot out every move tend to have a lot less fun than the folks who are clueless but up for spontaneous adventure. The most memorable parts of a trip are often the things not planned--stumbling onto a village festival, dancing all night at a club thanks to a tip from another traveler, hopping on a boat at sunset with new friends. There's always another hostel or rental room just down the road, and things will fall into place. The last time we talked, Beth mentioned a friend just south of London, in Sussex. "Hopefully," she said, "he'll let us stay, maybe for a couple of days." A free room and the chance to get off the tourist path and hang with some locals? Sounds like Beth and Sara are learning to backpack like seasoned vets. Lodging HI City of London hostel 36 Carter Lane, 011-44/207-236-4965, hihostels.com, from $32 per person The Generator Compton Place, London, 011-44/207-388-7666, generatorhostels.com, from $17 St. Christopher's Inn 9 Green St., Bath, 011-44/207-407-1856, st-christophers.co.uk, from $19 Activities Jane Austen Centre 40 Gay Street, Queens Square, Bath, 011-44/122-544-3000, janeausten.co.uk, admission $11, walking tour $8 TKTS South side of Leicester Square, London, officiallondontheatre.co.uk/tkts Burren Bike Ballyvaughan, Ireland, 011-353/65-707-7061, burrenbike.com, $17 per day Shopping Camden Markets London, camdenlock.net/markets.html Petticoat Lane eastlondonmarkets.com Resources Lake District infogolakes.co.uk, lakedistrictoutdoors.co.uk, lakelandgateway.info Surprise! BritRail was kind enough to set up Beth and Sara with free Flexipasses, good for eight days of first-class travel within a two-month period in England, Scotland, and Wales, valued at $435 each for travelers under age 26 (britrail.com). What more appropriate gift for two friends who want to explore as much as they possibly can?

What you'll find in this story: Rome restaurants, Rome culture, Rome attractions, Rome neighborhoods, Rome churches, Rome museums When I was 22, I did Rome in three efficient days. With a backpack and a guidebook I covered St. Peter's, the Colosseum, the Pantheon. I ate a pressed sandwich. I sat on the Spanish Steps. A group of Italians drove me in their tiny Fiat to a genuine out-of-town restaurant. I liked the city well enough, but I didn't get why it seduced people. I prefer to peek under the skin of places, figure them out a little, and in Rome that seemed impossible. The city was a labyrinth of churches, ruins, and steep-walled palazzi barred by iron gates. To be honest, I was happy to tick Rome off the list for good. And then came the telephone call. My wife, Jennifer, a student of classical art, had won something called the Rome Prize. She was being offered a free year to live in Rome, and if I took time off from my job I could stay with her through the summer. We'd live atop the Janiculum Hill, in a room with 15-foot ceilings, overlooking a fountain. Dinner would be served promptly at 8 p.m. Could we come? How could we not? The Boston Globe gave me a leave of absence. We found a cat-sitter and a car-sitter. And we packed and repacked, weighing our crammed luggage until it fit precisely under the airline's weight limit, 74 pounds per bag. We arrived in January to find the streets raked by 40-degree winds. The Rome of my memory had been rolled into storage. Café awnings were furled; outdoor tables were stacked and chained. Some restaurants were shuttered completely until March. The city's crumbling grandeur was familiar enough, but the details of daily life felt endlessly strange. The streets buzzed with two-person microcars, smaller than anything I'd ever seen driven by adults. Policemen carried machine guns and sported intricately sculpted beards. Store owners were fastidious about handing out receipts, even for a cup of coffee, but they were creative in making change, often in my favor. Everyone wore thick quilted coats, and men all had the same moleskin pants in ocher yellow--but mysteriously, no stores appeared to sell them. We were living at the American Academy in Rome, a venerable institution seemingly designed to hold its occupants in splendid isolation from urban life. So although we had moved to Italy, we had almost none of the ordinary bureaucratic headaches expats have to endure. The academy was full of professors and artists, some of whom had been coming to Rome for years. They knew a version of the city that wasn't in guidebooks, and they knew who to call--a former colleague, a government functionary--for permission to see it. When they went out, I could almost always tag along. One early winter morning, we rode the number 75 bus over the river to the Colosseum stop. (Can you ever really grasp a city where the Colosseum is a bus stop?) We walked past the Arch of Constantine, past the Forum entrance, and stopped on the Palatine Hill. A grad student had landed a permit to visit a rarely seen building called the House of the Griffins. Even with permission, Rome doesn't yield its secrets easily: We shuttled back and forth between two gatehouses for 45 minutes before we found our contact, a custodian who spoke no English. He led us through a fence and stopped at a stone arch that opened onto a blank wall. There was no house, just a steep metal stairway running straight down into the ground. We climbed three stories down, plunging from a cold day into colder, damp earth, from an Italian park in 2005 into the living room of a man who wore a toga and sacrificed to Jupiter. The House of the Griffins is the long-buried mansion of a wealthy Roman who lived in the years before Julius Caesar. We played our flashlights over walls painted in faux marble--apparently the Romans have always loved faux marble--and floors in op art mosaics. Rome has more buried epochs than most cities have epochs. Every square inch of the city is like a pressed sandwich of history. Beneath the churches are older churches, and beneath those are temples, or the remnants of huts. It wasn't just me who couldn't get a handle on Rome. Nobody could. As more and more doors opened, and I read a bit of Italian history, I started to figure it out: Prehistoric settlements lay under the Republic, the Republic lay under the Empire, and the monuments of the Empire were leveled and pillaged by a nearly endless succession of popes. The popes put their crests on buildings as if they were signatures. Six mounds and a star was the work of Alexander VII; three bees was Urban VIII. Another door wasn't opening as easily, however: the language. Before I had come to Italy, I had studied Italian grammar and even started listening to CDs. With devastatingly accurate intonation, I could ask, "Is Chiara there?" And, "Is Amanda there?" But on the street I would produce one grammatically shining sentence--"Excuse me, where is the church with the preserved heart of St. Charles?"--and get back a rapid-fire mouthful that sounded like nothing I had ever heard. So Jennifer and I enrolled in Italian classes. Every day we trekked nearly an hour to the Piazza di Spagna to spend the afternoon under the crisp tutelage of Costanza, our infinitely patient teacher, wrestling with the past imperfect or the bizarre Italian double-pronoun. ("Did you give him the cheese?" Costanza would ask. "Yes," we'd reply. "Him-it I already gave.") It was one small step for our Italian skills, and a giant leap for our grasp of the city. Pretty soon we could get from the Pantheon to the Trevi Fountain three different ways; we knew how to find Parliament, the only heated mall, the best gelato. But I still had to think out my sentences before I said them. I'd greet waiters with a crisp "buona sera" and they'd hand me the English menu. One morning I stood in a café with my friend Carl, an American who gesticulates and fires off ciao bellas like he was born in Italy. He had a brilliant piece of advice: "You can't say 'um.' The minute you do, you're toast." He sipped his macchiato. "Italians just stretch out their words and make an 'ehhh' sound until they think of something else. Or if you really need to buy some time, say 'dunque.' " My dictionary said dunque meant "thus," but Italians use it as a kind of drumroll. So I started dragging out my syllables, peppering conversations with "dunque-aaay," "cioè-ehhhh," "però-ohhh...." I tossed in a few choice Italian gestures. Part of speaking the language right was acting it, according to Carl, and eventually I felt like I hit a kind of rhythm when I went to restaurants and asked for a table. But I still got the English menu. We emerged from the Catacombs of Sts. Marcellinus and Peter, a giant maze of tombs beneath a remote eastern neighborhood, into a bright February day when my cell phone rang. It was a reporter in Rome who worked with the Globe. My leave of absence had a string attached: If anything happened to Pope John Paul II, my Roman holiday would be put on abrupt hold. For a month and a half the news out of the Vatican barely stopped. My life orbited the surreal Vatican pressroom where every day the pope's dour spokesman would emerge to deliver the news in Italian. His Holiness invariably remained "tranquillo," despite the painful-sounding things being done to him. On April 1, we were told that the pope was "conscious, lucid, and serene"; during the night of April 2, he died. I was at home when I heard the news, and I immediately ran all the way to the Vatican. It was like speeding through two worlds in 20 minutes--the Rome I knew, where students still went to bars and families crowded into little trattorias--and a Rome that had suddenly erupted from history, with thousands of Catholics and tourists flocking to St. Peter's, looking up at the pope's empty window, saying Ave Marias by candlelight, packing a square that had been built 350 years ago for just this purpose. Journalists stepped off planes and wrote about how the Eternal City was being overwhelmed, but nothing could have been further from the truth: Rome had transformed from a place where buying a stamp can be impossible to one that casually kept 500,000 pilgrims housed and hydrated. Tens of thousands of volunteers emerged from nearby towns in matching yellow vests to help maintain order. The Knights of Malta, founded 1,000 years ago to treat sick crusaders, set up a modern, red medical tent right in St. Peter's Square. Every day the city delivered freight pallets loaded with bottled water to hand out to the crowds. This being Italy, the water was sparkling. Once Pope Benedict XVI said his inaugural mass, once the pilgrims went home and the story died down, I found that Jennifer and I were living differently. We stopped carrying a map. I could arrive at an unfamiliar bus stop and figure out, in 15 seconds, whether to hop on the bus or not. We knew if a cabdriver was taking us the long way. The weather had broken; walks at night were suddenly beautiful. My parents visited, and then Jennifer's parents visited, and we both slipped easily into tour-guide mode. Showing people around made me realize I had internalized a whole set of rules: Italians never wear shorts, never eat dinner before 8 p.m., never drink cappuccino after noon, never pay attention to don't walk signs. They call ahead for a table, but not too far ahead. I learned to describe Jennifer, who has brown hair, as bionda, or blonde, because of her light complexion. Perhaps most gratifying was that after weeks of wheeling and dealing with Vatican officials, recalcitrant nuns, and three different kinds of police, my Italian actually worked. My phone calls got more fluid, and the last time we booked a table at our favorite neighborhood trattoria, the "reserved" card on the table next to us said stranieri--"foreigners." On our table this time, the card said stefano. As the heat mounted, the city began to feel a little enervating, so we escaped for a five-day trip to the north of Italy. By the time we returned, the city had transformed itself again: Stages were being built in public squares for summer concerts. Streets were clogged with tourists, seemingly all moving in groups, seemingly all behind the same bottle-blonde lady holding aloft a folded umbrella. You could no longer just drop in for a quick scoop of gelato--you had to wait, but I didn't even know how to line up anymore. Instead of shoving right into the side of the line, a Roman tactic I had finally embraced, people seemed to form the orderly queues of their native countries. It was the Rome I remembered from my visit all those years ago, a crush of three-day visitors ticking Rome off their lists. But it wasn't the place where I'd been living. So, for my last weekend in Italy, we did as the Romans do. We went to the beach. Every local has his favorites During his six months in Rome, Heuser found himself returning to a few spots, not all of which appear in the guidebooks. Here's his partial, and highly subjective, list of museums, churches, and restaurants worth adding to any itinerary. Ancient art gallery Palazzo Massimo While busloads of tourists wait hours to get into the Vatican Museums across town, you can stroll right into this magnificent collection of ancient Roman sculptures, paintings, and mosaics. The top floor alone is worth the $9 admission, with several vividly frescoed rooms re-created from Roman villas. Your ticket also admits you to three other museums of historical Rome: the Palazzo Altemps, with more sculptures; the Crypta Balbi, an anatomy of the medieval city; and the Terme di Diocle-ziano. Largo di Villa Peretti 1, 011-39/06-3996-7700. Great collection Galleria Borghese Located in Villa Borghese park, the Galleria Borghese is a manageable jewel commissioned by the nephew of Pope Paul V expressly to hold his lush art collection--classical marbles, Renaissance paintings, and some of Bernini's greatest sculptures. The walls and ceilings, decorated to reflect the theme of the works displayed, constitute a museum in and of themselves. Piazzale Museo Borghese 5, 011-39/06-328-101, $10.50 (reservations required). Major church Santa Maria Maggiore This cavernous basilica is a thousand years older than St. Peter's and was built after the Empire collapsed, when Rome was crumbling into a backwater. Its grand accumulation of art and artifacts embodies the wealth and eclecticism of the Church--sparkling medieval mosaics, Rome's tallest bell tower, a purported fragment of Jesus's crib, and two garish Renaissance side chapels larger than some churches. Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore. Medieval basilica Santi Cosma e Damiano Of the thousands of people who go to the Forum every day, few pop out the side gate and visit this charming medieval church. One end was grafted onto the Temple of Romulus; the other is covered with sixth-century mosaics in a strikingly modern blue-green palette. A quirk in the building's history means the floor is much higher now than when it was built, putting visitors right up near the saints, the evangelists, and the flock of lambs. Via dei Fori Imperiali 1. Architecture showpiece San Carlino Architecture aficionados tend to skip the big-name churches, preferring buildings by Francesco Borromini. The baroque craftsman imbued his tiny structures with imaginative geometries that give mind-bending life to their plain stucco interiors. The most popular is probably Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza, between Piazza Navona and the Pantheon, but I especially loved San Carlino alle Quattro Fontane, where the elliptical dome rises in a mystifying tangle of octagons and warped crosses. Via Nazionale at Via delle Quattro Fontane. Trompe l'oeil Convento di Trinità dei Monti Inside this French convent--you enter just to the left of the Trinità dei Monti church, near the Spanish Steps--is a long anamorphic painting in the cloister. It's a landscape that, as you move around, morphs into a portrait of a cloaked saint. Tours are given only twice a week. Ask if an English-speaking guide is available; otherwise the tour will be in French or Italian. Piazza della Trinità dei Monti, 011-39/06-679-4179, $6.25 (reservations required). Cheap tour The number 116 bus The 116 isn't the quickest way across town--walking is probably faster--but riding the tiny bus is like a ¬1 tour of the city. It starts in the parking garage next to the Vatican and wriggles its way through an hour's worth of Rome's great public spaces and boulevards--the Via Giulia, Piazza Farnese, Campo dei Fiori, the Via Veneto--before finally turning around in a bucolic cul-de-sac in front of the Galleria Borghese. Hop off and walk through the surrounding park, or just stay onboard and do the whole thing in reverse. Secret lunch Sora Margherita There's no sign outside this small temple of traditional Roman cuisine, and technically you need to be a member to eat there, but if you know how to find it they'll let you join on the spot. (Membership is free.) The menu changes every day, but as with much Roman cooking, simple is good--we liked fried artichokes, meat agnolotti in red sauce, and the house wine. If you get to Piazza delle Cinque Scole, in the Jewish Ghetto, and can't find it, look for a doorway draped with long, red, lei-like strands. Piazza delle Cinque Scole 30, 011-39/06-687-4216, agnolotti $9. Pick-me-up Granitas at Tazza d'Oro The most famous cup of coffee is at nearby Sant'Eustachio, but for my money--about half as much per espresso--the most consistently rich and perfect cup is at Tazza d'Oro, near the Pantheon. On a summer's day, the cult item is the granita di caffè, a slushy hit of intense, frozen coffee topped with stiff whipped cream ($2.50). Via degli Orfani 84, 011-39/06-678-9792. Roman pizza Da Ivo Arguments rage about the best traditional Roman pizza, a flat-crusted pie baked quickly in a searing wood oven. But if you follow the Romans, they're heading to Ivo--a cheap, busy, and fun joint, full of soccer memorabilia, in Trastevere. Call ahead and they'll often have a table ready; favorite pizzas are the apple-Gorgonzola and the sausage-and-mushroom with red sauce ($8.50 each). Afterward, stroll up the street to Santa Maria, one of the prettiest piazzas in the city. Via di San Francesco a Ripa 158, 011-39/06-581-7082. Trattoria Antica Roma Veal saltimbocca, fried appetizers, pasta all'amatriciana: Trattoria menus are remarkably similar, so the goal is to find a place that does the classics well and gives you an authentic Roman experience to boot. There's no cutesy ambience to Antica Roma, in a quiet neighborhood (Monteverde Vecchio) beyond Trastevere, but the crowd is local, the staff is mainly family, and the salmon pennette studded with fish roe ($11) is ridiculously good. Via Alberto Mario 17, 011-39/06-581-6809. Dinner out Antico Arco A "fancy" dinner tends to mean a trattoria with a great location and double the normal price for spaghetti with clams. Antico Arco, on the Janiculum Hill, just west of the city center, is in a whole different category--a youngish, upscale restaurant with dishes such as puff pastry filled with tomato and mozzarella ($13), and a carbonara like you've never imagined ($18). The impressive wine list is fairly priced. After dinner, walk past the Fontana Paola and look at Rome twinkling beneath you. Piazzale Aurelio 7, 011-39/06-581-5274. Gelato San Crispino There's average gelato, excellent gelato, and then this stuff. Portions are small and priced with a swagger (starting around $2.50 for a small cup), but San Crispino, near Trevi Fountain, is worth seeking out. The grapefruit one is so concentrated you can almost taste the pith. Via della Panetteria 42, 011-39/06-679-3924.

After eight years, we still can't get enough of the reality game show Survivor. We talked to the show's executive producer, Tom Shelly, about what he looks for when he scours the planet, bugs and all. "When it comes to our scariest wildlife moment, it's a tossup between the lions in Africa and Australia because of the snakes. King cobras are common and we saw quite a few of them. Australia has something like nine of the ten world's most deadly snakes." What makes a good Survivor location? What features do you look for? The big thing we look for is beauty. And we want a place to have a sense of isolation for the experience of the survivors, and for the audience. It should also conjure adventure. Is it getting harder to find remote locations? There aren't as many deserted islands as you'd think. You go to locations that look great. The problem is that they're already developed with houses and condos, because they're so beautiful. It's hard in general to find isolated places. How much has the wildlife altered the show? Depending on where we go, it's definitely a concern. In Kenya, it was very real. There were lions and water buffalo, which are extremely dangerous. We let them (Survivor contestants) know they're out there. We give them very specific instructions, but we don't do anything other than educate them. Snakes are very dangerous. Crocodiles are a very real thing in Guatemala. Right now, the contestants are on a lake that's filled with crocodiles. What, in your opinion, is the show's most outrageous/memorable moment?In the Pearl Islands, when we were about to maroon the survivors. As we were filming and bringing them on a boat from Panama City, we came across a group of humpback whales--they were so close! Seeing these whales breeching right off the side of the boat was amazing. We were with a guy who has sailed for years and he said he'd never seen anything like that. Then there was the time in Kenya at the Masai Mara filming survivors who won a challenge in a hot air balloon--they saw a lion catch a wildebeest. The opportunity to see something like that is so rare. What's the one thing no 'Survivor' should be without... Honestly? I would say a mindset: determination and being able to adapt. Being able to not get freaked out by the fact that you're in the middle of a jungle with noises, animals, creatures, and weather you've never experienced before. If you're able to adapt to that, you've got a huge advantage. Any hints on the next location? No! We reveal it at each season's finale. Survivor is on Thursdays at 8 P.M. EST on CBS. cbs.com/primetime/survivor11/

All I can think about is the egg in my backpack. My friend Cristina and I are hiking in the Sierra Madre mountains to the stone circles at El Quemado, a sacred Huichol Indian ground. The word around Real de Catorce, where we're staying, is that an egg will stand on end if placed within the circles. But first you have to get the egg there--which means no slipping on the rust-colored shale. At almost 10,000 feet, the air is clean but thin, and I begin to regret taking the steep shortcut to the top. "Do you think we're cheating?" wonders Cristina between breaths. "I mean, the Huicholes make month-long pilgrimages on foot to come here." The thought occurs to me that our little adventure may in fact be cursed. I wasn't the first person to get that feeling about Real de Catorce. In the late 18th century, so the story goes, a cowboy was toasting tortillas when he noticed a stone melting near the campfire. It was silver. Opportunistic Spaniards rushed into the area, and Real became Mexico's second-largest source of the precious metal. At its peak in 1898, Real had a population of 40,000. Evidence of the boomtown days is everywhere--intricate wrought-iron balconies, old photos of well-dressed matrons displayed in hotel foyers, arched Moorish entrances to mines, and, if you believe in ghosts, the spirits of prospectors who met their fates in the lawless town. As another story goes, a priest planted a series of crosses up in the hills to get the people to repent. When his efforts failed, he cursed the town to ruin. Silver production fell off steeply in the early 1900s, and by mid-century Real was crumbling and largely deserted. Modern-day Real was "discovered" in the 1970s by an Italian hippie on a quest for mind-blowing peyote, the tomato-shaped hallucinogenic cactus. Counterculturists from around the world followed. Today, the town is home to 1,500 residents who proudly celebrate the "confusion of cultures": towheaded children of "los hippies" tend goats with local elders; a Swiss expat grows lettuce for restaurants, many of which are Italian (though pizza toppings include artichoke-like cabuches, the pickled blossoms of the biznaga cactus); a couple from Buenos Aires entertains kids with rides on an ATV. Even one of the shamans is Italian. Tourists seeking adventure and mysticism have been slowly turning up. Real isn't especially beautiful--on the surface. But amid the crude cobblestone streets and ramshackle architecture are elegant stone buildings and gorgeous churches. And the atmosphere is relaxing, to say the least. There are no banks or ATMs, horses and mules are still a main mode of transportation, and siestas are taken seriously. Some visitors come with one thing in mind: tripping on peyote. They brave its bitter flavor and endure extreme nausea in the hope of tasting higher consciousness. The Huichol believe that this altered state helps them commune with Kauyumari, the dancing deer deity who ensures that pilgrims on peyote don't experience thirst, hunger, or fear. No one in Real gets busted for eating peyote, though these days it's not easy to come by--the hillsides nearby are picked clean. To discourage backpackers from dipping into the Huichol peyote supply, and to keep everyone "happy," locals have been considering cultivating a special grove. Just getting to Real is a challenge. We drove through a hardscrabble village, past sparse clusters of yucca palms, before rising into the Sierra Madre. Finally, we reached the mile-and-a-half-long Ogarrio Tunnel, the sole route into Real. Carved at the turn of the 20th century, it's only wide enough for one-way traffic. A tiny man waved us onward, after getting the all-clear by phone from the other end. Things were fine until we skidded over the well-worn stones and nearly ran into a wall where the tunnel unexpectedly turns. We emerged into the sunshine, only to hear a loud thud. A group of Mexican boys had jumped on the car, giving us the standard welcome for new arrivals. They made their way to the bumper, surfing like pros and guiding us up steep stone streets, past donkeys and abandoned buildings. Our hotel, El Mesón de la Abundancia, is the center of town, in the middle of the main drag, Lanzagorta. The sidewalk in front of the hotel is a nexus for tourists, where 20-something locals with dreadlocks peddle puka-bead necklaces, and where guides, many of whom have barely sprouted chin hairs, offer tours. Gaby at reception handed us a massive, old-fashioned room key while a suit of armor looked on from the corner. Our room was charming, with stucco walls; high, wood-beamed ceilings; and bright, scratchy Mexican textiles. We shared a terrace with two couples from Canada, who immediately advised us to close our windows at night because the animals in the street make a lot of noise. Before dinner, we went for a walk. "This rock is magical!" a man shouted from his doorway. He had long black hair and wore sandals made from old tire treads. "Try it--pruébalo." He introduced himself as Renato, an Aztec medicine man and owner of the fossil and amulet store we were standing in front of. I slipped off my flip-flops and placed my bare feet on a giant quartz crystal. He instructed me to rub my hands together while he put eucalyptus oil on my neck and temples. After 10 minutes, my arms ached from the rubbing and my head was light, but clear. "Ves?" he nodded. "Sientes la magia?" I had to admit, I did indeed feel the magic--or at least profoundly relaxed. I floated back to the hotel for the quintessential Real de Catorce meal. As if on cue, the lights went out in the middle of tangy chiles rellenos and fettuccine al pesto. Guests screamed, then giggled, as waiters fumbled to light candles. After a creamy, rum-laced wedge of pastel de la abuela (grandmother's cake), we slunk off to bed. Even with the windows shut, the bray of a donkey woke me just before dawn. The owner of El Mesón, Petra Puente, had invited us for morning coffee and ghost stories. A Frida Kahlo lookalike in Calvin Klein jeans, she regaled us with tales of characters such as the Rag Man--he supposedly blew out the lanterns that people used to carry through the Ogarrio Tunnel. More than a few times, she reported, guests at El Mesón have felt something tugging at their sheets in the middle of the night. Even Cristina, who grew up in Mexico hearing tales of local hauntings, cringed. "There are no rules here, probably because we're so isolated," Petra explained. "Even the ghosts do whatever they want." As the days unfurled, another bit of wisdom from Petra rang especially true: "There's an art to doing nothing in Real." At first we wondered how to fill our time, since it's possible to see the sights in an afternoon--the 1888 Plaza de Armas with its old-fashioned gazebo; El Palenque, a ring used for cockfights and concerts; the abandoned mint (Casa de la Moneda); the church (Iglesia de Guadelupe) and cemetery on the edge of town; and the main church (La Parroquia de la Concepción Purísima). It didn't take long to fall into the natural rhythm. Our walks became slower. We checked out what was playing at the Cine Club, which shows works by indie filmmakers such as Jim Jarmusch, but never sat down for a movie. We lingered in shops, at the stalls selling candied spaghetti squash and My Pretty Ponies, and over beers at our favorite café, La Esquina Chata. We chatted up everyone: a woman from New Zealand who'd been traveling for four years; three friends from Aguascalientes who stumbled on Real by accident; a guy from San Antonio who told us how he heard footsteps behind him in the desert but never saw a soul. We found ourselves contentedly watching the shadows lengthen to reveal giant folds in the valley below. "When was the last time you spent half an hour watching birds?" Cristina asked one afternoon from a rooftop hammock at another place we stayed, Hotel El Real. One day, we decided to explore the surrounding hills--in particular, the pueblo fantasma, a tiny ghost town vacant since the old mining days. Petra put us in touch with tour guide Don Boni. Before heading out, he showed us a photo of what looked like a miniature Machu Picchu, with beautiful terraces of avocado trees. It was Real de Catorce in 1898. Don Boni claimed to be able to accommodate up to 25 people at a time in (and on top of) his brown 1958 Jeep Willys. It looked like a prop from The Night of the Iguana. He told us he'd been driving the vehicle since he was 12 and had never had an accident--a detail that calmed me down only slightly as we set out on the narrow roads overlooking dizzying precipices. "How do you say 'vertigo' in Spanish?" I half-joked. He smiled and masterfully pumped the clutch with his dusty cowboy boots, but I couldn't stop imagining the brakes giving out--and us tumbling hundreds of feet into the ravine in a massive ball of twisted metal, brush, and dirt. "One American woman was so scared she grabbed my hair and wouldn't let go," he said. With my heart thumping, I confessed that I didn't have the stomach for the ride either, and closed my eyes for the three-point turn. Ten minutes later, a thunderstorm rolled in, and I took comfort in the fact that my wimpiness had saved us from being stranded. Cristina and I ducked into an Argentinean-owned restaurant, El Malambo, for empanadas de picadillo stuffed with cinnamony beef, olives, and raisins. I slept well that night--until 3 a.m., when the dogs began to bark, joined by a chorus of donkeys and horses. We had decided to save the main church for our last day. La Parroquia de la Concepción Purísima receives thousands of Catholic pilgrims each October; they come to pay homage at its statue of St. Francis, beloved protector of animals and patron saint of the poor. We walked down the aisle of the cool, well-tended church and admired the unusual wooden floor, designed so that it could be replaced piece by piece if parts deteriorate. We were drawn most of all to a room adjacent to the altar. It's covered, floor to ceiling, with hundreds of little devotional paintings called retablos. The paintings ask St. Francis for help healing gastric ulcers, returning stolen trucks, and understanding the "mysterious illness that killed my cows." Some were naive scenes painted on tin, others near-masterworks on cardboard. More modern dilemmas were illustrated on velvet or came on paper from ink-jet printers. The egg is intact, as far as I can tell. And then I notice a goat mocking us from a ridge above--and sure enough, I lose my balance. But I can't bear to look inside my bag, not yet. The trail levels off, and we pass a donkey. I wonder aloud if he's related to the one keeping me up. Cristina says her grandmother believed that when animals make noise at night they're communicating with spirits. Things finally made sense: Real was loudest--and most filled with ghosts--around 3 a.m. As we approach the stone circles, I reach into my backpack, hoping for the egg but finding shell shards and warm yolk. "I guess we just have to believe," says Cristina. In a way, I already do. The road to Real The nearest airports, in Monterrey and San Luis Potosí, are a three-hour drive away. Turn off Hwy. 57 (Pan-American Hwy.) just north of Matehuala and follow signs to Real de Catorce (by way of the village of Cedral). From Matehuala, it's 40 miles to Real, but the drive--over windy, cobbled roads--takes at least an hour. Once you've passed through the Ogarrio Tunnel, you're there. Lodging El Mesón de la Abundancia Lanzagorta 11, 011-52/488-887-5044, hotelabundancia@hotmail.com, doubles from $55 Hotel El Real Morelos 20, 011-52/488-887-5058, hotelelreal.com, doubles from $51, includes breakfast weekdays only Food El Mesón de la Abundancia Lanzagorta 11, 011-52/488-887-5044, chiles rellenos $5 La Esquina Chata Lanzagorta 2, 011-52/488-887-5060, focaccia sandwich $4 El Malambo Lanzagorta at Allende, empanadas de picadillo with salad $2 El Cactus Plaza Hidalgo 3, 011-52/488-887-5056, cabuches pizza $3 El Tolentino Teran 7, tortilla chips and guacamole $3, margarita $4 Activities Don Boni's Jeep Willys Tour Contact through El Mesón de la Abundancia; from $20 for two hours Cine Club El Café Mañana, corner of Morelos and Constitución, $1 donation