The Ephesus Museum, located near the tourism office in the town center of Selcuk, is like no other archaeological museum I have ever visited. Artifacts and statues, recovered from the nearby ancient town of Ephesus and other excavations were scattered all over the world, in the British Museum in London and the Ephesus Museum in Vienna to name but two. Finally, the Turkish government forbade the export of antiques and the Ephesus Museum in Selcuk came into being.

Rather than displaying the items in chronological order, the museum is divided into ‘Rooms with a Theme’. The effect is to bring history to life in a very attractive way.

First from the entrance is The Terrace Houses Room. Mosaics from walls and floors have been recovered and integrated into a room which shows ancient life. The room is populated so to speak by life size cut outs of a Roman patriarch reclining on his bench, surrounded by his wife, children and slaves. What could have been rather garish and Disney-esque has resulted in a tasteful combination of old and new.

The Burial room exhibits plans of burial sites, Roman as well as Greek and several touching childrens’ sarcophagus.

Sarcophagus of a child

The most famous artifact is of course exhibited in the Artemis Room, the over life size statue of the Anatolian fertility goddess Cybele (Artemis) dating from the 1^st century AD. A smaller version of the same statue stands opposite her.

Fertitlity goddess Cybele (Artemis)

The museum is relatively small and the rooms allow for close access and inspection of the works of art. So you can admire the many smaller sculptures of Eros and Psyche or Eros with a dolphin, dating from the 2^nd century.

Eros and psyche dancing

Eros and dolphin

Center piece of the building is a courtyard with a fountain around which more Roman statues and sarcophagus are arranged. Dolphins spew water into the basin and plants and flowering bushes create to illusion of walking in the garden of a house in ancient Greece.

Water basin and spewing dolphins

Tired and thirsty from admiring all that art, you have a chance to take a rest and have a Turkish coffee or tea in the café. Water, plants and trees make for a wonderful, shaded retreat.

Cafe in Ephesus Museum

But there is more. What I have never found mentioned anywhere is that three rooms in a separate wing are dedicated to modern Turkish art. Paintings, prints and sculptures of three contemporary Turkish artists are on display and some of them you can actually buy.

Painting by a modern Turkish artist

The museum which, in its present form, exists since 1983 has managed to build a bridge between ancient  history and today’s output in a fascinating way, making it one of the best places to visit in Europe if you’re interested in Turkish history and archaeology. In this case you’ll also enjoy reading the Europe a la Carte post ” Archaeological Sites of Eastern Turkey“.

One of my top Europe travel tips is to visit the mountains close to Rome, the Apennine mountains in the neighbouring region of Abruzzo. Although Abruzzo skiing is not as good as that in the resorts of northern Italy, the proximity and convenience of the Abruzzo resorts make them extremely popular weekend destinations for Romans and a great Europe destination.

Abruzzo is an ideal travel destination in all seasons. In the winter there is downhill and cross-country skiing, sledding and ice skating. In the summer, there is fantastic hiking, biking and horseback riding. Abruzzo is still a fairly undiscovered Italian region and tourist masses never descend upon the charming mountain towns in the same numbers as they do in neighboring regions such as Tuscany and Umbria. Yet the towns are lovely, the food and wine extremely good, the mountain air rejeuvenating and the nature breathtaking.

One of the most popular Abruzzo skiing resorts for Romans also happens to be one of the closest and easiest to reach by highway, the town of Ovindoli. Ovindoli is about a 1 ½-hour drive from Rome and all but the last 15 km is easy highway driving. It is equidistant from the airport in Pescara, on the Adriatic coast. The town itself is small, with plenty of hotels and apartment rental options and many restaurants serving up hearty mountain fare.

Food in Abruzzo is simple, but excellent. Regional specialties include the chitarra pasta, fresh egg pasta – thicker than linguine, but narrower – served with the local saffron sauce, delicious gnocchi (especially good in this potato-producing region) with ragù (tomato sauce with meat), sausages, scamorza (melted cheese) or arrosticini (lamb skewers), all of it perfectly accompanied by the regional red wine, Montepulciano d’Abruzzo.

My family and I often enjoy Abruzzo skiing at Monte Magnola , just 3 km from the center of town. If you are driving up with your own car, head up early as the parking lots fill up quickly. There is also a frequent shuttle bus which departs throughout the day from the town square.

The mountain is panoramic and is popular with skiers and snowboarders. There are also easy slopes for children and beginner skiers and lessons can be easily arranged.

Just a few kilometers from Ovindoli is a second ski resort, Campo Felice . The closest towns are Rocca di Cambio (at 1434 meters from sea level, this is the highest town in the Apennine mountain range) and Rocca di Mezzo.

This isn’t an area used to lots of foreign tourism, so fewer people will speak English or other foreign languages. Nevertheless, you’ll be able to make yourself understood and will most likely have a great time in this unspoiled region. Enjoy your Abruzzo skiing holiday!

The world’s largest collection of Frederic Chopin related items includes musical manuscripts, printed scores, Chopin’s correspondence, personal items (such as cufflinks and diaries), iconography, as well as biographical works about him and critical commentaries on his compositions and his reception as a composer. The collection was first started in 1899 by the Warsaw Music Society and is located in the renovated Ostrogski Palace, originally a castle founded at the end of the 17th century by Duke Janusz Ostrogski.

Chopin Museum in Warsaw is a post from A Luxury Travel Blog

****

Sneaking behind its cloak of blinding light, it moves inexorably at first, ripening across the gauzy distance. As it drops ever faster, incomprehensible shades of flame, roses, port wine, blood pass across its face. Faster still, and a thousand breaths catch in a thousand throats in anticipation of the impossible plume of water that is sure to erupt at the place where this celestial conflagration will meet its final extinction. Now it is draped in the silks of the saris of the women burning beneath it; now it is a hole in the sky that leads to the gallery in which the saris are made.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with expectant boys and dancing children, you can almost hear it, a gob of fire and boil sizzling against the curtain of sky. Hands are clasped, hands are raised. They are trying to catch it in their upturned palms.

Voices grow loud, a round woman faints gracefully into the sand. It becomes impossible to avert the eyes from this, the final time anyone will ever see the sun. When inexplicably the plume never materializes, even you, the sole white face in a sea of saris, are surprised. At the last instant, like a gaudy Vaudeville showman, the more-usually middling star simply dons its thin green cap and disappears coyly off stage, its death plunge into the molten waves of the Indian Ocean averted. For tonight, at least.

For the traveler, though, see the sun set at Kanyakumari and die. You might as well—you’ll never see a sun like that again. But we soldier on toward new sunsets, no matter how certain they are to disappoint. Now that twilight has come, the tendrils of night working inward from the edges, the masses begin to stir. Allow yourself to be swept along with them, smiling at the little girls who can’t help but gawk at the only foreign face they’ve ever seen. Walk with them away from the water, away from the shrines, their endless monotone prayers tinny voices coming faintly into your ears as though eavesdropping on a tin-can telephone from Mars. Walk with them, an Indian for a day, away from the water and up into the Cardamom hills.

You take the alley that leads from the village uphill, past nets glowing yellow and red, through clots of small boys huddled around a broken outboard motor. A thoughtless left would take you to the market, the taxi rank, the small Internet bunker that looks on the verge of collapse, but at this juncture you pause. Breathe deeply on the streets of Cape Comorin, and you will know to turn right.

There is no name above the open façade, and the place doesn’t look like much from afar. Nor does it look like much as you stand beneath the long, low awning, feeling your shirt-tails flutter in the hot breath of five-dozen ceiling fans beating madly inches above your head. But this is where the dark-skinned river has brought you, a place where young men and children touch your hands, and the grandmothers brush against your arms. This is Kanyakumari, the holy place, the shrine-riddled place, the confluence of dark ocean currents and the end of the world; the food here, like the sun, cannot disappoint. Surely, it will reduce all others by its mere existence, as the Comorin sunset has reduced the sun that will fall tonight upon Santorini.

You pay the man at the door the price of admission—thirty cents—and the great rusty wheels of the Indian culinary machine begin spinning up. Before it sweeps you away like the outbound tide, flow to the rear of the long, low hall filled with large round tables to scrub your hands at the communal sinks. Once done, you take a place at the first table you see and are provided a broad, copper plate, the thali, lined with banana leaves and with a series of smaller metal bowls called katorirunning along the curve of its lip. Milky coffee follows almost instantly, brought by a boy who proffers it in a peculiar combination of cups—a low, wide saucer and a narrow copper cup without handle. You hold them both by their rims and tip the coffee into the saucer, then back into the cup from a small height. Over and over you tip the coffee, a meditation to distribute the sugar and cool the scalding brew. Time for one quick sip, maybe two, before the arrival of another small boy carrying a bowl of rice and a plate of bread, both of which he deposits with a flourish of his skinny arm in the center of the copper plate. Another boy—his brother, perhaps? They all are as though from the same extended family—brings stewed potatoes and lentil-flour pancakes. On his naked brown heels comes another boy, this one with a metal contraption hanging from his elbow. From this swiveling steaming clanking dripping thing he begins to ladle into the katori chutney, daal, sambar, vicious pickles, mixtures of potatoes and mustard seeds, paneer, cooling curds, and rice pudding, runny and sweet.

Around this time, the amount of time it took to meander from the sunset to this anonymous eatery, the rest of India has appeared, filing past your table toward the sinks at the back. They all have come to eat with you, old men and their wives, laughing girls, aghast toddlers yanked forward by their chubby hands, and you return their easy smiles even as you ready yourself for this business—one napkin close at hand, another two in the lap, a sip from the pitcher of boiled water, and a deep breath. The serving boys have vanished, your table is full, you began to eat.

Even with every table overflowing and people at your elbow patiently queuing for an open seat, three mouthfuls from any bowl brings the corresponding boy running, summoned as though by telegraph. Ladles slopping, hands glistening with sweat and oil, they go to work, and your bowl is made full. A bite of chutney, a dip of bread into turmeric-colored soup, a ball of rice between your fingers, and here come the boys, panting, laughing, filling the bowl, heaping the rice, sending round after round of buttery roti slapping wetly against your plate.

This happens a pair of times, a dozen or a hundred times. You lose count and begin to see visions and hear song. The room is a madhouse of families, jaws working, sweat dripping, but you are never ignored; the man beside you is patting his belly and smiling as he points to your plate. You raise your eyebrows, waggle your shoulders, a pair of girls giggle as you drop a pinch of rice. Your own stomach strains but halting seems impossible—how could it be that you’ve been eating for an hour, and there is no evidence of progress? Without being aware of commanding it, you lift your hand, tear the bread, raise it toward your open mouth.

It is night now, and the air is cooling down at last. Everyone’s cooling down, laughing, singing, groaning. Feasting. They’ve already forgotten the sun.

It’s a fabulous gathering but not exactly a hotbed of family travel information (unless you want to count my son going to the associated ScreenBurn video gaming event.)

If I was a more organized blogger I’d have things pre-posted and/or guest posts lined up for you….and that’ll happen right after those last Christmas decorations get put away at my house, right?

Right!

One day trip well worth considering is a train or bus journey to Chartres to visit Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Chartres. You may well be wondering why I suggest Chartres for those who are seeking to escape the throngs of tourists in Paris. Chartres is definitely one of those places that is World-renowned for one attraction – and here it is the stunning cathedral, with its amazing carvings and medieval stained glass windows that have survived many wars.

Chartres is a beautiful town with some pretty medieval timber-framed buildings, and only about 60 kilometres outside of Paris. It is easy to get a train there, from Montparnasse train station for about €20, and so avoid the tour buses. Of course you should head to the Cathedral, but after your visit take some time to explore this wonderfully picturesque town that, were it not for the Cathedral, would be an average rural town in the French countryside.

There may well be many tourists visiting the Cathedral, but it really is worth a visit. The cathedral was built on a commanding hill on the left bank of the Eure River. From a distance, it looks as if it hovers above the surrounding wheat fields. There have been at least 5 Cathedrals on this site, all destroyed by war or fire. Of particular note are the amazing stained glass windows, some of which date back to the 13th century. During the Second World War these were removed from the cathedral to the countryside for safekeeping.

Other Paris day trips include Château de Compìegne, Le Château de Vaux-le-Vicomte, the Palace of Versailles and Claude Monet’s house and Garden at Giverny.

The French word “Éclat” literally means “glorious accomplishment and honour”, and this aptly describes this stylish, avant-garde new hotel with lavish furnishings, priceless artworks, eclectic contemporary design and among the most opulent guest room amenities of any hotel anywhere.

A member of the prestigious Small Luxury Hotels of the World, the 60-room hotel is owned and conceived by sophisticated Hong Kong entrepreneur George Wong, who created and owns the legendary luxury apartment complex Hong Kong Parkview. The hotel features much of his personal art and furniture collection, and even his own personal collections of vintage fine wines and priceless rare Chinese mao tai liquor.

The hotel was designed by Charles Robertson of LRF Designers Limited, whose work includes stylish projects such as the ultra cool Le Meridien Cyberport Hotel in Hong Kong, Starworld Hotel & Casino in Macau and Four Seasons Shanghai.

New boutique art hotel in Taipei is a post from A Luxury Travel Blog

David Rozgonyi

David Rozgonyi was born in Libya to Hungarian political refugees in 1976. He has lived on four continents and has traveled through over 50 countries on foot, bus, train, motorcycle and Cyril, his beloved 1977 Volkswagen bus. His first book, Goat Trees: Tales from the Other Side of the World, is a collection of short fiction written in and about some of his favorite places in the world. His first full-length novel, Two Dolphin, is coming out soon. He currently lives and writes in Hungary. For more photography, book information or just to say hi, visit David at davidrozgonyi.blogspot.com.

David has been kind enough to share one of his previously unpublished short stories with the Lost Girls, along with some of his amazing photos.

****

The End of the Line

By David Rozgonyi

It is a confluence of forty thousand miles of rail and three dark ocean currents, of statues and sea, of pilgrims and shrines, of chants held aloft by a wind that always smells of kelp. An ending and a beginning and everything that resides between the two, it is a place where water meeting water can eat a star, where almost all of the penitent’s wishes come true.

The rare foreigner arrives by train from cities along the coasts on either side of the Southern Ghats—Malabar or Coromandel, it makes no difference except in the way the words roll. Come down from Cochin, Jew Town and the Venetian canals of the Kerala State on a train that is in constant flux; steaming and gasping, it slows, then picks up a little speed, then slows, then stops for a while like a pack animal resting. One after the other, the passengers disappear, and seldom do fresh ones come to take their place beyond Tirunelveli, though the train continues to pause interminably at every empty station. The men with turbans are gone like ghosts, and the withered hawkers have long ago given way to cutgrass and bleating goats. The south Indian air, hot and dank to begin with, thickens with salt. The land grows flat. Had you come hard seat, you might have found company, but in this upper class sleeper into which they so helpfully forced you, apart from the soiled laundry and the trash between the bunks, you are alone. Once one of thousands, you have become the sole survivor on a train that groans behind you for almost a quarter of a mile, empty and forlorn, with no signs of life but for its relics—piles of dirty sheets, the unbalanced blades of fans whipping at the air, an upended tin cup rattling beneath your bench. After a while, time itself unravels, winds down. Your limbs grow heavy; your movements take on all the hurry of growing rice. Only after seasons have passed, after monsoons have come and gone, does the train come to the end of the line. Get your bag, get out, and get walking. Although the traveler has to reach this town by train, for the full effect she must enter it on foot.

See the empty square, the clouds clearing above the shanties and the shacks at yourapproach, flowing downhill toward oceans in your silence. You turn your head slowly this way and that, not drawing attention while using a gait that amid the red-sand deserts of your childhood you discovered ate the ground no matter how it bucked.

To the south, a vast concrete statue of Swami Vivikananda stands guard on an island offshore, his brow higher than the Statue of Liberty; a great flower-yellow cathedral pompous enough to return the traveler’s thoughts to childhood European dreams corrals the village to the north. Between them, a huddle of indifferent blue-washed houses in the late afternoon light—the fishing village of Kanyakumari.

The angular solidarity of the buildings is cleaved by dendritic alleys giving onto small, irregular squares that slope steeply downhill so that every step compels the walker toward the water, where the boats are drawn up onto the sand. In haphazard files of vivid greens and reds they cluster, torn saffron-colored nets veils across their bows. The murmur of children seeps from every bruised quadrangle and falls from the flat terraces that crown the houses to settle like silt over the streets, stirred only by the cries of seagulls and crows.

Your pack is light and this is a good thing, for this is the sort of town that invites the traveler to savor the aromas the air offers. Your nose guides you through delicately painted olfactory scenes, and the burning ghats of Varanasi, the wet undershirt slums of Calcutta, the trenches of Delhi, dissipate from coal-blackened sinuses, leaving only the tremendous and wistful scent of sea rocks awash beneath the sun.

And what a sun it is; it is the reason for which you are here. In this sacred place it is rumored to set like a great orange disc upon the sea, an absolutely impossible sun as large as every sunset you have ever seen taken together, larger than your largest memory of it, even if this memory is made engorged by the taste of a mango-sweet mouth upon your own. It is the reason everyone is here.

As evening approaches, the pilgrims of this sun gather on the point like small black ants around a drop of golden syrup. Facing the Swami on the rock, they chat, they eat fried vegetables cooked by vendors whose kitchens are mounted on the backs of their rusting bicycles, they wait. This last is important, for no matter how gaily they disguise it, in actuality that is all they are doing, waiting for the sun to fall, as they have done for a thousand years and as they will do for a thousand more. In India things cannot change so easily.

As you sit reading on the seawall that surrounds the point, you can tell when the show is about to get underway without so much as glancing up from your book. The laughter, the idle chatter, ceases. A hush seeps over the shrines, the vendors, the tide pools, right down to the waterline, where the end of the world is marked by a stone lingam eternally worshipped by an obese stone rat. A sigh rises from the old mothers and the fervent men. Put your book down—the sun has begun to fall.

Järvsö has a population of less than 2000 people and has an unmistakable small town feel.  Spend a weekend in town and you are sure to stumble across the same person once or twice.  But with that small town feel comes the requisite small town charm beautifully displayed at Järvsö church.

The founding of the church is a matter of debate, but remnants of a stone church from the 1200s have been found at the site of the current church.  Like so many churches in Sweden, this one too has a rune stone in the vicinity.  Just behind the church is a rune stone dating to the 11^th century, about the time that Christianity began to take hold in Sweden.

Along with the history though comes a stunning setting.  Järvsö church sits on an island in the middle of the Ljusnan River, the church spire rising up above the surrounding area.  Take the opportunity to wander around the church yard and admire the natural beauty of rural Sweden.

A great time to visit Järvsö is for traditional midsummer celebration in during the weekend closest to the summer solstice.

If you’re doing your European travel planning, be warned that Järvsö’s official website is only in Swedish.

The Spandau city commander, Count von Hacke, wanted a market built to extend Berlin’s urban area during the 18^th century.  The apartments surrounding the market became popular and respectable addresses. The tenants were proud of their large complex with eight rear courtyards.

The market progressed after it’s construction and by 1900, the market was a prime example of the Art Nouveau period.  The façade facing Hackescher Markt included a large, round arch and long, skinny windows.  The market included many courtyards and shops with a mixture of services offered.  The courtyards especially show the age of Art Nouveau, with many green vines mixed with modern, artistic shapes of glass to enhance the courtyard.  Today the Hackesche Höfe has a very lively atmosphere.  Rebuilt to emulate the original market, it offers many shops, courtyards and coffee shops to add to the busy atmosphere. A great way to experience Berlin.

Hackesche Höfe is also the home to the first ever S-Bahn station in Berlin. The fact that this is where the first train station was built shows the amazing popularity and high traffic that moved through the market during earlier days. The S-bahn station is a great example of the Historicist movement. Often when we think of Historicism, we think of grand buildings such as the Reichtag or the Berliner Dom.  These buildings are truly Historicist, however Berlin hides many more examples of Historicist architecture that we often overlook.  The S-Bahnhof at Hackescher Markt is a prime example of this kind of architecture.  In 1882 the first S-Bahn train traveled, with Emperor Wilhelm I as the guest of honor, through a new railway route.  The urban railway station at Hackescher Markt was an impressive station built to excite Berliners about the new train system.  The hall measures about 100 meters in length and 16 meters in width.  It has a low-arched roof and originally offered a skylight in the middle.  The side facing Hackischer Markt is richly decorated with low arches above shops and an upper story with round windows.  The side panels of the walls are ornate and detailed.  Hackescher Markt was built to reflect the beauty of the Renaissance.

Hackescher Markt is not only a beautiful structure revealing aspects from the Renaissance, but it also is home to one of Berlin’s most important historical milestones.  The addition of a street train was essential for the rapidly growing Berlin.  The railways allowed Berliners to travel from easy to west without causing traffic.  The new railway line symbolized Berlin’s movement to become an ultra modern city.  There was a demand for public transportation, due to the population increase.  Hackescher Markt and the first ever S-Bahnhof stands today as a reminder of the beginnings of a well thought out city.

If you’re interested in exploring Berlin further and stepping away from the typical sights, take the S-bahn to Hackescher Markt to see the beginnings of a bustling city.