Panama City boasts an abundance of rooftops, reflections, angles and curves. The sheer scale of the buildings in the “Dubai of the Americas”, many over 60 stories high, make for dazzling, if dizzying, panoramic views. The skyscrapers of downtown confuse the mind with their deep plunging verticals and mirrored windows, revealing 360 degrees of vertiginous skyline, sprawling city grid and the undulating Gulf of Panama coastline. The more human-scaled buildings in the old town, Casco Viejo, provide equally compelling views over the Spanish colonial-era network of red tile roofs, melding together the old with the new.

Where better to find a great rooftop bar?

Panama City emerged as an international centre for business and trade after the completion of the Panama Canal in 1914. Today it’s the wealthiest city in Latin America. With continued foreign investment and the recent canal expansion, the city is poised to continue its transformation. For us, this means sizzling nightlife and great bars and restaurants. Panama has 14 of the 25 tallest buildings in Latin America and The Marriott (originally the Trump Ocean Club), has the highest floor count, at 70. Many of the hotels offer exceptional rooftop bars and pools for guests.

In spite of the financial boom, the city is still grounded by its cultural influences and history. Casco Viejo, where Panama City was founded, is a UNESCO-designated historic district. Following the destruction of the first settlement by Captain Henry Morgan in 1671, the Spanish moved the city to the rocky peninsula where Casco Viejo still stands. Surrounded by the imposing rock wall originally built to defend the city from invaders, Casco is a step back in time. As urban expansion pushed the boundaries of Panama City further out around the turn of the century, the city’s elite left Casco Viejo and the neighbourhood rapidly deteriorated into a slum, with crumbling architecture. Fortunately, most of the buildings have now been lovingly restored and the neighbourhood revitalized, home to many restaurants, cafes, shops, hotels and renovated historic buildings.

From any elevated vantage point in Casco Viejo, the town stretches out before you in a labyrinth of churches, plazas and palaces while the modern towers of downtown rise up like sharp-edged glaciers across the bay. Continuously changing cloud formations add drama to every view.

With a delicious cocktail in hand made from fresh local ingredients, it’s easy to fall in love with Panama City.

The top ten:

Downtown and Area:

1. The JW Marriott Panama (originally the Trump Ocean Club)
Punta Pacifica District

To get a seat on the patio of the spectacular rooftop bar on the 66th floor of this 70-storey, sail-shaped building, get here early. The incredible infinity pool looks like it slides off the side of the tower, so it’s just as well we can’t swim in it. It’s just for show but it adds an element of glamour and sophistication.

The building was taken over in 2018 by JW Marriott following a dispute, where the Property Management company reportedly had to use a crowbar to strip the Trump name off the building. The JW Marriott is the tallest building in Panama and in Central America. The tower apparently resembles the Burj Al Arab Hotel in Dubai, which is the tallest in the world at 163 floors.

www.marriott.com/hotels

2.BITS (Bar in the Sky) Rooftop Lounge, Hard Rock Hotel (also known as the Megapolis Tower 1)
Marbella District

A glitzy, glamorous venue, the rooftop bar of the Hard Rock Cafe, “BITS,” is on the 62nd floor of the 63-storey Hard Rock Hotel Panama Megapolis. This indoor and outdoor lounge is stylish and upscale, with sprawling red & pink satin lounge chairs and comfy couches. It has wonderful views of La Cinta Costera (the coastal beltway which has a 2.5 km pedestrian walkway running along the waterfront to Casco Viejo) and exquisite cocktails.

https://es.hrhpanamamegapolis.com

3.W Panama
Campo Alegre District (Business District)

The W Hotel in Panama City is the Marriot W Brand’s first Central American property. The W Hotel’s WET Deck is a pool bar on the 15th floor of the 50-storey W Panama Hotel. It’s a fairly recent, sleek, modern addition to the Panama City rooftop bar scene. Centrally located, it has the sought-after W vibe, views over the Cinta Costera and the downtown skyline, as well as a pool you can swim in.

https://www.marriott.com/

Casco Viejo (Old Town):

4.Tantalo Hotel Rooftop Bar

Tantalizing food and wonderful views are yours on the rooftop of the industrial-chic Tantalo Hotel at Happy Hour. As the sun sets over the red tile roofs of the white colonial buildings of Casco, we wash down delicious fusion-style tapas (think quinoa and chickpea salad, sautéed octopus with coconut milk) with a Michelada, a Mexican cocktail made with beer, tomato juice, lime and hot sauce. The glowing dome of the Iglesia Merced is so close I feel like I can reach out and touch it. Tantalo is a ten-room boutique hotel with a bar and restaurant on the ground floor, but the rooftop terrace is the main attraction.

www.tantalohotel.com

5.Gatto Blanco, Hotel Casa Nuratti

Next door to Tantalo is another fantastic rooftop bar, Gatto Blanco, which is on the top of the Hotel Casa Nuratti. It has an intimate atmosphere with live music Tuesday nights. Wednesdays are ladies nights, with $1 glasses of sangria. Walk through the stylish lobby to get the elevator to the rooftop.

http://hotelgattoblanco.com

6.Casa Casco Restaurant & Rooftop Bar

The five-storey Casa Casco building has three floors of restaurants; the independently-run Marula, Naciyn Sushi and Mano de Tigre. On the fourth floor is the nightclub, Casco Club and at the top, the decadent terrace bar. The cuisine ranges from Japanese to Central American fusion. From the roof, watch the locals gather in the charming Plaza Herrara below, an historic hub of the neighbourhood or peer into the large rooms of the stylish American Hotel on Avenida Central. Then watch the sun set over the old town, coming to rest on the beautifully restored Hotel Central on the Plaza Independencia.

http://casacasco.com

7.Salvaje

One of the coolest bars in Casco – Salvaje (which translates as Wild) is a local favourite not on the tourist map. It is located near the walled entrance to the old town. If you decide to walk to the roof of the lively bar five stories up, you can meander through the crumbling, historic building with its wide, plant-filled balconies, reminiscent of Havana, Cuba. It’s noisy, so try not to get a table next to a loudspeaker pumping out local and international music. The cuisine is Japanese fusion which combines local Panamanian with Japanese ingredients. Watch the Panama City skyline disappear as the sun sets across the bay.

https://salvajepty.com

8.Las Clementinas Hotel & Rooftop Bar

The hotel was named after Clementina Herrerra, an eccentric and successful female Panamanian entrepreneur in the 1950’s. Ask for a refreshing Panamanian Mojito made with clementine juice, clementine segments and Seco, an alcohol distilled from sugar cane, lime juice and basil leaves. There’s also a popular Sunday brunch at Mahalo Restaurant next door, run by two Canadian sisters.

www.lasclementinas.com

9.Lazotea, Hotel Casa Panama

A small bar, with big views. Lazotea was apparently the first rooftop bar in Panama City to have a swimming pool you can actually swim in. It has one of the best rooftops in Casco, with views across the bay. Located near the entrance to Casco, it is at the top of the Hotel Casa Panama, which also houses Restaurante Santa Rita. The cuisine ranges from Central American to French, with a range of European dishes.

Avenida Eloy Alfaro Corner with Calle 11, Old Town, Panama City 0801 Panama

10.Capital Bistro

This unassuming, yet elegant and often overlooked little restaurant/bar is near the entrance to Casco and so close to the water, you can see the fishing boats of the Mercado de Marisco (fish market) coming in to shore for the night and watch the sun set over the bay. The sparkling little lights on the patio make the evening magical and the signature cocktail list and menu from the Capital Bistro Restaurant below ensure an unforgettable experience.

http://capbistropanama.com

See article in magazine:

https://tasteandtravelmagazine.com/2020/12/top-ten-rooftop-bars-in-panama-city/

Vineyards of Zlatne Gorice Winery

Article appeared in Taste & Travel International Spring 2013 Edition  – We nervously keep our distance as the cellar master at Stari Puntijar Restaurant in Zagreb demonstrates how to open a champagne bottle using an antique sabre – a preprandial flourish I’ll likely not pull out at my next dinner party. He removes the foil, leaving the cage intact and holds the base of the bottle with the neck facing away. He locates the stress seam in the glass, the weak spot. In one smooth motion, he slides the blunt edge of the sabre across it, making contact with the lip in a precise, forceful movement that breaks the neck. A second later, he’s pouring the frothing liquid from the ragged bottle. Over rounds of the bubbly and “Zivjeli” (cheers), we applaud his prowess and he tells us next time he’ll use a flaming sabre. Several of the dishes at dinner tonight have been prepared with recipes derived from a 17th century cookbook once belonging to a Croatian Duke, part of the archival collection of Zlatko Puntijar, our host and owner of the oldest restaurant and wine cellar in Zagreb.

Wine barrel & cart in Ilok wine region

Continental Croatia, the interior, doesn’t get much attention or many tourists – yet. The Adriatic’s Dalmatian Coast has been a popular destination for years, but few venture inland. The furthest reaches are only a day trip from Zagreb – the capital – itself only a couple of hours northeast of the coast. Despite the Croatian fondness for the sabre, the country’s shape reminds me more of an inverted hook dagger. The long coast forms the dagger, with Zagreb in the handle and the continent the hook. I’m heading to the easternmost corner, a region circumscribed by the borders of Slovenia and Hungary on the north, Serbia on the east and Bosnia & Herzegovina on the south. The area incorporates culinary influences from its neighbours, as well as traditions inherited from its own nomadic past. The wine-making tradition here is distinct from the rest of Croatia, with four major wine regions and 35 wine-growing hills. With the country scheduled to join the European Union in 2013, I’m sure I’ll be hearing a lot more about continental Croatia.

Spring in Zagreb is alternately rainy, then sunny and always green — I stroll through well-manicured parks of blossoming lilac trees, tulips and daffodils. Zagreb provides a sophisticated, urban perspective on the gastronomic traditions of continental Croatia, as well as the rest of the country and it’s the converging point for the best of all the regional cuisines. I’m in town for the Annual Wine Gourmet Weekend. There’s a huge buzz about sampling these high quality Croatian wines from 150 vineyards. Perfect for a festival, Zagreb is a walkable city of restaurants, cafes, pastry shops, wine & rakia bars (rakia is brandy), art galleries and museums and a growing contemporary scene. The lively outdoor patios of the Upper Town contrast with the serene elegance of the lower, whose green horseshoe is a grid of leafy streets laid out in 1880.

Street art in Zagreb

Wild asparagus & cabbage in Zagreb's Dolac

The markets are a great way to learn about food – in central Zagreb, life revolves around the red-roofed dolac, with its huge green market — the cathedral a picturesque backdrop — and an underground market with fish, cheese and meat from the farms and rivers of the interior. I find wild asparagus, freshwater octopus, sauerkraut (cabbage is a Croatian staple), creamy sheep cheese and cured meats made from wild boar, deer and pig. In the afternoon, old men drink tiny glasses of rakia at the old cafes along the market’s edges and watch the crowd bargaining with the headscarved vendors.

Coffee and dessert are an art form here — I have espresso and coffee cake in the stunning 3-storey Art Deco Gradska Kavana City Café. Zagreb was thriving in the 20s and a main stop on the famous Orient Express which travelled from Paris to Istanbul, via Milan and Zagreb. The Hotel Palace’s Art Deco lobby is a tribute to the stars who stayed there, including Sophia Loren and Orson Welles. The stylish Regent Palace was built to accommodate the famous train travellers.

Varazdin, an hour north of Zagreb, was the Baroque capital of Croatia from 1756–76. Close to the Austrian border via Slovenia, it’s called “Little Vienna” — its 500-year-old Town Hall is one of the oldest in Europe and the Old Town Castle a UNESCO heritage site. The local guide undrapes the grand piano in the Baroque Concert Hall and gives an impromptu concert.

Fresh cheese in Samobor

The medieval town of Samobor, a half hour from Zagreb, is magical in mist — little arched bridges straddle the river and tidy, red-roofed houses line its edges. It was once a retreat for noblemen and intellectuals escaping city life. The local shops display farm-fresh cheeses and honey. Villagers enjoy morning coffee and cake, savouring the quiet before the Catholic church lets out. Samobor is also known for Bermet, a fortified wine and for a grape mustard which can be sampled at Bermet Filipec Winery.

The fertile farmland of Croatia’s interior is breathtaking — this vast plain is surrounded by limestone mountains and fairybook forests, shaped by the mighty Danube and Drava rivers, whose sinuous curves create marshes to shelter animals, birds and fish (deer, kuna, wild boar, heron, storks, swans, cormorants, carp, pike, catfish). A cormorant dries his wings over a marshy canal and I spot a stork’s nest in a church steeple. This is the real heart of Croatia, the breadbasket of the country.

The vineyards and farms of the interior are a rush of bright yellow; mustard plants are ground cover. Farms nestle in culverts, barely visible but for a wisp of chimney smoke. Created by the black soil of an ancient sea (whose islands formed the vineyard hills), the fields are interrupted only by clumps of dark forest. The misaligned vertical slopes of the well-tended vineyards lend them a playful symmetry.

Grasevina at Principovac Country Estate near Ilok

The indigenous wines of the Slavonia and Danube regions are only beginning to be internationally recognized and include white varietals such as graševina and traminac and reds like frankovka (or blaufrankisch). Graševina is the signature white grape of continental Croatia. Also known as welschriesling in other parts of Europe, it produces its best results here, due to the area’s warmth and humidity. The best examples are full-bodied, with fresh acidity and marked minerality. The Zinfandel grape had its origins in Croatia. It was brought to Italy and then taken to the U.S. in the mid-18th century, with Italian winemakers who settled in California. Visiting Slavonia is George Taber, a U.S. wine writer whose books popularized new world wines — testament to the rising interest in the viticulture of the area. Canadian wine writer, Beppi Crosariol, recently wrote – “The next big wine country? (Hint: It starts with ‘c’ and ends with ‘a’)”.

Planting vines at Krauthaker Winery

The smaller wineries preserve Christian traditions dating back to when the monasteries produced the wine. At Bermet Filipec Winery, Antun (Toni) Filipec, whose family has run the business for two hundred years, points to white letters and numbers on his cellar door — “20 + C + M + B + 12” – the numbers of the new year and initials of the three wise men, Caspar (C), Melchior (M) and Balthazar (B) – which were painted on each house at Christmas. At Kutjevo Winery, there is an underground tunnel between the cellar and the monastery; the door was once padlocked to keep the young monks out. Kutjevo was founded in the 13th century; the oldest wine cellar in Croatia. The Ottoman army destroyed the church but not the cellars – they enjoyed the wine, traded it and stayed until 1558 when the monks took over again. Slavonia is one of the largest wine-growing regions in Croatia and the Kutjevo area, where the delightful Krauthaker Winery is located, one of the most important. In spite of its modern methods, the steepest, narrowest rows of Krauthaker’s vineyard are tended by a single ploughhand with a stocky black crop horse. The wine industry was affected by the many wars, from the Ottoman invasion to World War II and revived again after the area emerged from communist influence. The Slavonia region was badly damaged during the War of Independence in the 90s, but several winemakers helped revive the industry.

Bordering on Bosnia-Herzegovina, is the town of Slavonski Brod, where we taste wine with the engaging Dalibor Pejicic at the chic winery, Cikulin. In heavy rain, a traditional village house restaurant, Sobe Tonkic, provides comfort. The meal is cooked in the dining room’s open fireplace, homemade wine and fish paprikash (with handmade paprika) are served by the family and music is provided by young musicians with traditional instruments.

Principovac Country Estate

The Baranja Wine Road, an EU-designated wine route, takes us through the rolling Baranja hills to Belje, one of the largest wineries in Croatia, near Osijek, a town at the Serbian border. Touring Belje feels like walking the deck of a giant ocean liner, the shining sea of aluminum tanks beneath us a startling contrast to the wineries we’ve been visiting. Belje has produced some notable, prize-winning wines, as have many of the smaller vineyards and at the stunning Principovac Country Estate, we try more of the area’s wines and cuisine. Osijek was under siege for several months during the 90s, and the scars are still visible here and in nearby towns. The huge, bombed-out water tower in Vukovar is a grim, everyday reminder of the war’s toll – as is the cemetery filled with 90s graves.

In Kopacki Rit Nature Park, close to the Hungarian border, we stop at Kormoran, one of the leading farm village restaurants (or “pustaras”). A shepherd’s stew of deer and wild boar spit-roasted on an open fire, is served with smoked freshwater carp — with paprika sauces from a steaming cauldron and kulen sausage from a 500-pound Slavonian pig.

Everything converges here on the continent and the universe seems in happy alignment. No one expects or wants a tidal wave of tourists, but most everyone anticipates a steady flow of people interested in food, wine and an authentic travel experience. The continent is the diffident star of this earthly paradise called Croatia.

 Wineries

Bermet Filipec – www.bermetfilipec.hr.

Cikulin- vinarija.cikulin@yahoo.com

Ilocki Podrum – ivica.pavetic@ilocki-podrumi.hr

Josic Winery – www.josic.hr

Krauthaker www.krauthaker.hr.

Kutjevo – www.kutjevo.com.

Belje – www.belje.hr

Zlatne Gorice – www.zlatni-restorani.com

Coffee & Pastry Shops

Gradska Kavana City Café & Republica Restaurant, Zagreb www.gradskakavana.hr

Amelie, Vlaska 6, Zagreb, Tel: 01/5583360

Slasticarnica U Prolazu Restaurant, Samobor

Trg kralja Tomislava 5, 10430 Tel: 01 3363 704

Palatin Restaurant & Café, Varazdin

Braće Radića 1, 42000 Tel: 01/398300 http://www.palatin-varazdin.com

Restaurants

Zagreb

Stari Puntijar, Gracanska Cesta 65, Medvescak, 10000 tel 01/4675 600, 4675 500

Korcula – www.restoran-korcula.hr

Ciho – Pavla Hatza 15, 10000 Tel 01/4617124

Vinodol – http://www.vinodol-zg.hr/english.html

Republica – http://www.republica.hr/

Pod Grickim Topom – www.restoran-pod-grickim-topom.hr – under the cannon.

Varazdin

Zlatne Gorice – www.zlatni-restorani.com

Verglec – www.verglec.com

Palatin – www.palatin-varazdin.com

Slavonski Brod

SOBE TONKIĆ Village House, Zagrebačka 348

35000 Slavonski Brod, Hrvatska, Tel: (385) 35/273-408

Ilok

Principovac Country Estate, Principovac bb, 32236 Ilok

www.ilocki-podrumi.hr

Salas Goldschmidt, near Vučedol

tel: +385 (0)32 428-234

Accommodation

Zagreb

Hotel Palace (www.palace.hr)

Regent Esplanade (http://www.regenthotels.com/EN/Zagreb/Esplanade-Zagreb)

Hotel Astoria (http://www.hotelastoria.hr/)

Stari Puntijar – new inn to be opening soon – see contact information above

Slavonski Brod

Art Hotel – www.art-hotel.hr

Osijek

Hotel Osijek – www.hotelosijek.hr

 Varazdin

Hotel Turist – www.hotel-turist.hr

Karanac

For a farm stay in the Baranja area, contact:

www.belje.hr

 For More Information:

Visit the Croatian National Tourist Board at www.us.croatia.hr.

Croatian Wines, visit www.winesofcroatia.com, run by Cliff Rames, sommelier at the Plaza Hotel in New York.

Zagreb Wine Gourmet Weekend, visit http://www.zagrebwinegourmet.com/en

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Article appeared in the Ottawa Citizen

When Spanish explorers arrived at Lake Maracaibo in what is now Venezuela, the natives were living in huts on stilts and using boats shaped like gondolas, which reminded the Spaniards of Venice. They promptly called the area Venezuela — Little Venice. Eventually, the name was adopted for the large land mass surrounding the lake.
These days, Italian tourists make a beeline to Venezuela’s tropical Los Roques islands. These denizens of Rome, Milan and Venice don’t cross the Atlantic just to visit a country named by Spanish explorers to honour an Italian city, though. There are far more reasons to spend a week or two in Los Roques.

Los Roques boasts some of the best coral reefs in the world for diving, consistent winds and protected lagoons for kite- and wind-surfing and dazzling, white-beach-lined cayes (sandy islands) that attract sun bathers and fly fishermen from around the world.

“You make kite?” Lusmila asks, her black eyes wide. My friend and I have just arrived back at the Posada Acuarela with a group of kite-surfers.

“No, but we might take a lesson,” I offer lamely, wishing to impress the go-to-girl at the posada (inn). In addition to Spanish, the hard-working, 26-year-old Lusmila, who is Venezuelan, speaks Italian and Spanish, German and a little English. Lusmila adamantly won’t let us practise Spanish or try even a few phrases of Italian. She insists on speaking English.

Los Roques is an Italian enclave in Venezuela’s Caribbean, surprising given Italy’s distance and the difficulty of getting here. Even though Los Roques has some of the best kite-surfing in the world, the beaches are why most of us are here. Sorry, Lusmila.

The majority of the posada owners in Los Roques are Italian, as are the tourists. There are only a few Americans and no other Canadians. El Gran Roque (or Big Rock) is the largest island in the archipelago of Los Roques. It’s the only inhabited island, about 160 kilometres north of mainland Venezuela and a 40-minute flight from Caracas. Reflecting the popularity of the island among Italian tourists, the restaurant menus include risotto and fish carpaccio. There are a disproportionately large number of places in this tiny town where you can get a decent espresso. There’s even a bocce ball court.

It was only 15 years ago when the island received electricity. In fact, the first posadas were renovated fisherman’s shacks. Today there are some 600 permanent residents and about 90 posadas, set amid some 1,400 square kilometres of lagoons, reefs, and the most beautiful beaches we have seen. “The Maldives of Venezuela,” as a tourist called them.

Acuarela, one of the most sophisticated of the posadas on the island (and there are many beautiful posadas to choose among), seamlessly blends indoors and out, with lush tropical plants filling every hallway, niche and corner. Furniture made with dark tropical wood, ornate wrought-iron doors and abstract paintings give it a cosmopolitan feel without relinquishing any Caribbean charm. The paintings are by the owner, Sicilian-born Angelo Belvedere, who splits his time between Caracas and Los Roques, when he isn’t exhibiting his works in Madrid or Barcelona. Creating Acuarela was a labour of love, says Belvedere. His name means “beautiful view.”

Island-hopping is a daily ritual. Excursions to the stunning “fantasy islands” which surround El Gran Roque, are part of the posada package, called “full board.” You can choose any of the islands, and the posada takes care of getting you there, supplying lunch with sandwiches and cold beer, beach chairs and umbrella (a must no matter where you go, as the islands offer no shade).

Los Roques was declared a national park and ecological reserve in 1972. The closest islands are only a 10- to 15-minute boat ride away; none of them have buildings other than a rustic restaurant or the occasional boathouse. The islands include Madrizqui, Francisqui, Selesqui, Carisqui and Nordisqui. They were named by English explorers and then renamed by Spanish cartographers. Northeast Cay became Nordisqui, Sailor’s Cay became Selesqui, and so on. Snorkellers can swim through schools of fish on Carisqui, fly fishermen can angle for bonefish off several of the islands and sunbathers can watch the kite-surfers’ stunts on Francisqui.

It is completely possible to find an island to yourself. We opt for Francisqui.

“10 a.m. and 10 degrees from the equator,” says Jésus, the guy hired by our posada to run guests back and forth to the islands. He smiles, the sun glinting off his gold teeth, as he moves our beach umbrella and packed cooler to a better spot. I move my toe into the shade of my umbrella. I am already so relaxed, I have only a fuzzy recollection of being whisked to this uninhabited island in a motorboat by two men in white Acuarela T-shirts. A black lizard is watching me as I eat my sandwich. When I throw a crust, it grabs the morsel and scurries, squirrel-like into the scrub. Pelicans dive mere metres from my legs. Boobies and terns dry their wings on resting boats.

The kite-surfers are in their own endorphin-fuelled paradise, practising their manoeuvres again and again in a constant wind that never lets them down. The lissome Italian girl changes into her bikini with extraordinary ease under a perfect pareo — the Italians have sunbathing down to a science. The water is a brilliant aqua, the air smells like fresh fig, the sand is blindingly white and the beach goes on forever.

By mid-afternoon, Francisqui is a pageant of idleness. The umbrellas have been placed at steep angles to create shade. The couples who this morning were strolling the beach to show off their tans are now curled up next to each other in fetal positions or are sitting waist-deep in shallow water. The designer kites of the more ambitious kite-surfers, which at first drew crowds to watch their daring jumps, are now just a distraction high in the spotless sky. The less ambitious surfers are already having a beer, their kites straddling the beach like giant spiders.

Los Roques strikes the perfect balance between comfort and rusticity. The atmosphere in the posadas and in the town is Caribbean casual. There are no cars, the streets are pure sand and everyone goes barefoot. Supplies are flown in from the mainland and fish is caught fresh every day. There are only a handful of restaurants. No discos and no nightlife to speak of. It is expensive to get here, but the posadas are reasonably priced. By law, none of the posadas can be larger than 15 rooms or taller than a single storey with a mezzanine.

“Jésus, Raphael or José — who should we bring with us tomorrow?” The animated pre-dinner conversation of the deep-sea fishermen, discussing the merits of their marine guides, wafts my way with the warm breeze on Acuarela’s front porch.

Perfect weather, lush decor, the anticipation of sumptuous Italian cuisine and the mix of kite-surfers, sun worshippers, divers, sailors and fishermen from around the world give Acuarela the buzz of a New York restaurant. It is hard to believe we are on an island that’s more than a hundred kilometres from the nearest continent.

The heat, which is unrelenting during the day, has dropped to comfortable temperatures at night. On the beach, posadas and bars put out candlelit tables or artful arrangements of beanbag chairs. The island dogs play dead on the beach. They like to fall asleep exactly as they hit the cool sand and no one disturbs them. After a day of unforgiving heat, this is a dog’s idea of paradise.

Los Roques is our idea of paradise too. I am already starting to think about coming back. In the meantime, perhaps I will take up kite surfing, or maybe Italian.

Diane Penwill is a freelance writer based in Toronto. She read about Los Roques in a newspaper article a few years ago and visited in February.

 Dishes, glasses and menus fly past my head as I try to hold on to my corner spot at the El Rinconcillo bar in Seville, Spain. One man slices jamon, or ham with olympian dexterity, while another chops bread with equal precision. The waiter spins the glasses he has cleaned before placing them on the shelf. Hams hang from the ceiling above the bar and wooden shelves with bottles of wine and sherry line the walls. Waist-high sherry barrels serve as stand-up tables. Sevillians generally stand, their drinks resting on the sherry casks, although the bar gives me a better spot for soaking up the atmosphere.

The first thing I learn about etiquette in Spain’s oldest tapas bar is there is no etiquette. No ashtrays. Cigarette butts, olive pits and mackerel exo-skeletons all go on the floor. Spaniards are happiest standing, packed in like the sardines they so love to pop in their mouths whole. The bartender finds it amusing that I keep looking for places to stash my refuse. He gestures to the floor, which has a thick carpet of debris.

The tapas bar tradition in Spain dates back to the 15th century when they were known as “spit and sawdust” bars, probably because everything was thrown onto sawdust floors. Tapas bars feel a bit like pubs in England or Ireland, where the term “spit and sawdust” originated, although the floors are no longer sawdust. El Rinconcillo is the oldest tapas bar in Seville, the town where tapas originated and given the age of this bar, which dates to 1670, the tradition may well have begun right here. Seville, Spain’s fourth-largest city and the capital of Andalusia, has 4000 tapas bars and tabernas – about one for every 200 locals. “Trying to find a bar in Seville is like trying to find a man in a suit on Bay Street.” says my Canadian friend.

As I sip my Rioja, three large-bottomed ladies are laughing me out of my hard-won corner, so I order a plate of tapas to establish my presence. Spanish taverns used to use slices of ham or cheese as lids (tapas) on the tops of wine glasses to keep insects out; a free snack. The small plates known as tapas aren’t free, but the ritual “el tapeo”, or eating on the go, is still very much alive.

The house specialty at El Rinconcillo is a rich, dark vegetarian stew with chickpeas, wilted spinach, olive oil and pimientos. Another is fat, salted anchovies. Barreled sherries from nearby Jerez and Sanlucar are popular and the locals drink cold, dry fino with their tapas, especially with caramones or shrimps, or the local Cruzcampo beer. The wine served is generally oaky Rioja, which is delicious, cheap and abundant.

“A tapas bar is like the female heart,” observed a mustachioed patron sitting near the door, “it will always let in one more person.” The volume increases and the smoke gets thicker as the place gets busier. The serious-minded, middle-aged men working the bar are sweating as the pace of ordering and consuming becomes frenetic. By 10:00 p.m., the place is bursting at the seams. The density of human bodies, and general chaos of ordering and consuming, brings to mind Picasso’s painting, “Guernica”, as hands reach above the sea of heads to grab dishes from waiters, bodies twist and turn and heads, arms and torsos appear to be floating. A visit to the toilet is an expedition, as I try not to be spilled on, stepped on, burned or bruised en route. It comes as no surprise there is no toilet paper.

The bartender keeps track of my order on a tab written in chalk upside down on the wooden bar in front of me. The tab grows longer with each item consumed, graphically demonstrating my excesses. When a patron leaves, the tab is added up and erased. Not an expense-account place; no receipts are proffered. You have overstayed your tapas time when your list grows too long for the width of the bar. It is time to move on to the next bar.

Severe rainstorms make the streets of Seville rivulets, and the downpour means all the bars are packed to the rafters, people laughing and hanging out the windows, getting very wet. The bar next door is called Bar los Claveles, although part of the letters are worn away so it reads just “Aveles”. I edge my way in, and watch the news of the flooding on TV. The staff and clientele are friendly and I feel instantly like a local.

Most tourists hang out in the Santa Cruz area and leave the older barrios of La Macarena and its subset, Santa Carolina, where El Rinconcillo is located, alone. Santa Carolina is where the locals go. The narrow streets barely allow a car through, and people are forced to cling to the crumbling, colourful buildings every time one attempts to pass. The 600-year-old Santa Carolina church is nestled up breathing distance from El Rinconcillo.

As I leave another tapas bar in the wee hours of the morning, one bartender confessed to me he deliberately messes the place up if it is too tidy, spreading cigarette butts around the bar area and strewing toilet paper on the floor of the bathroom, to make it look as though hordes of people have just left, on to the next bar. So, tour the tapas bars, but don’t forget your toilet paper.

Article appeared in the Ottawa Citizen

‘Better not leave your bike in there, you’ll never find it again,” a man warns me as I dismount outside Rideau Antiques, in Eastern Ontario’s Rideau Lakes District.

The store’s sign is almost completely obscured by rusted bric-a-brac, as is the red brick face of the building and the entrance. It looks like a giant dumpster has unloaded its contents on the front lawn. Up close, the pile of junk is in fact an interesting mish-mash of century-old farm implements, delicate bedframes, 1950s metal patio chairs, children’s toys and side and end tables of every description.

Inside, dinky toys hang from doorways while baseball and boxing gloves, catcher’s mitts, snowshoes, riding acoutrements and musical instruments all compete for a nook or cranny to call their own.

Billed as Ontario’s biggest single collection of antiques and second-hand items, it certainly must be the most eclectic.

I make my way to the field at the back of the store and see tricycles peeking out of Queen Anne’s lace that grows higher than a child’s head. Dozens of antique bicycles pose in the goldenrod, as if for a vintage photograph. Narrow, open-air alleyways radiate out, resembling a Moroccan medina and creating a maze that makes it entirely possible to lose something or somebody. A small child or a bicycle could easily be obscured.

Clifford and Alice Miller have owned the business since 1962.

Clifford started the business in a small shed just a few miles away, near where he grew up. An ex-teacher from Smiths Falls, he still remembers the first piece of furniture he refinished.

“When I sold three in a row, I was hooked,” he says.

What began as a summer job to keep him going between teaching assignments in Europe and Japan is now a family business he runs with his wife, son, brother, sister-in-law and a cousin.

Clifford says it’s the repartee he enjoys with customers that has kept him going for nearly 50 years.

“Either the aisles here keep getting smaller, or I’m getting bigger,” remarks one regular.

I wonder how the Millers manage to keep track of their inventory. Short answer — they don’t.

“We have no idea how much merchandise we carry,” Clifford tells me.

But by constantly renewing their cache of local Canadiana, the Millers have kept customers coming back.

When I ask Clifford how he could possibly be knowledgeable in so many areas, he says: “I’m not an expert in anything.

“We don’t specialize. Our diversity is the reason we stay in business — something for everyone.”

Part of the fun of visiting Rideau Antiques is experiencing a sense of discovery. Because of the absence of any kind of order, your chances of uncovering a personal treasure overlooked by an earlier
prospector seem good.

Colourful old tractor seats with brand names such as Buckeye hang on the side of the converted barn, which has a chandelier collection inside and an attic with hundreds of chairs suspended from the ceiling, giving it an eerie haunted-house feeling.

But even more pragmatic types find good reasons to visit. If you have lost a hubcap, look for a replacement among rows of shiny hubcaps from every make of car. Home renovators browse among a huge selection of door hardware, including beautiful cut-glass deco knobs from the 1920s and more ornate Victorian styles. These things attract people from all over — apparently a woman who was renovating a house in Hamilton drove all the way to Lombardy for hinges.

Out in the field in the late afternoon, ancient, rusted farm equipment glows in the warm, fading sunlight. Piles of doors, coils of fencing, shutters, stoves, tubs and windows with colourful wildflowers growing through and around them take on a glorious, fleeting beauty.

“Do you arrange your antiques among those flowers out there?” I ask.

“No, they’re just weeds to us,” says Clifford.

Weeds or wildflowers? Junk or treasure? You decide. 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=lzl3J4e23aw

Article appeared in the Globe & Mail national newspaper

LISBON — It was the beginning of Christmas week, and I was alone in Lisbon. I had come to the Portuguese capital to avoid looking at the same lights and living rooms as the year before.

I hadn’t chosen Lisbon because of the weather, but the rain became an intrinsic part of the experience.     

The showers were warm, gentle, silky, ethereal — I found myself gliding through them, like a canoe on a rainy lake where sky, skin and water merge. By the time Christmas was over, I had memorized the Portuguese phrase for raining cats and dogs: chover a cantaros.

The guesthouse where I stayed, Pensao de Sao Joao da Praca, was in a magical location: across from the Romanesque SÈ, Lisbon’s cathedral and the oldest church in the city. The pensao was close to everything, making it perfect for walking. My room had a wrought-iron balcony that overlooked the SÈ on one side.

Because of the narrow street, it was so close that I could look right into the medieval heart of the cathedral. The view on the other side looked out over the undulating sea of red-tiled roofs in the Alfama district.

Lisbon is surrounded by small hills. The older districts, such as Alfama and Bairro Alto, rise up steeply opposite each other. The families who live in the narrow, cobbled streets of the Alfama quarter seem to goabout life much as they have since the Middle Ages. I watched them scurry from shop to shop on Christmas Eve, getting ready for the most important night of the year. The stores — selling cheese, meat and pastry, wine and port — were mostly without signs, with doorways cut into the thick-walled stonebuildings.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I sampled port in one cluttered shop where a little table was set up fortasting. I was the only customer and had the proprietor’s undivided attention.

“You have a wonderful selection,” I said as he poured me a rather large sample glass, beaming with pleasure.

“It will keep you warm in the rain,” he replied, pouring me another large glass.

Already full of Christmas spirit by 11:30 a.m., I was again seduced by the warm rain, giving me the incentive to walk around the city for a few hours more before stopping for a late lunch.

I climbed steadily through the drizzle up a long, winding Alfama street and finally stopped at a small, noisy restaurant that was covered from floor to ceiling in slightly faded blue-and-white azulejos (tiles). It was filled mainly with local working men. Finished work early for Christmas, they were in festive moods, eating heartily in spite of the feasting to come. Lunch was peas, onions and bacon with an egg on top, served with a robust Portuguese table wine. 

I left the restaurant and noticed the shops starting to close. By 4 p.m. the only stores still open were in the Baixa area, a pedestrian thorough fare with an elegant display of Christmas lights. Window-shopping couples held hands as they strolled down the tiled avenues. Santa was refreshingly absent, and there was none of the frenzy of last-minute shopping that characterizes Christmas Eve in North America.

The custom in Lisbon on Christmas Eve is to go to a midnight mass known as Missa do Galo, or Rooster’s Mass, so called because a crowing rooster is believed to have signalled the birth of Jesus. It rained incessantly during mass at the SÈ, the thunder intermittently louder than the choir. I tried to imagine how the voices would have sounded in medieval times as they carried through the narrow back alleys.

After the church service, the streets filled with laughing Lisboans who were heading home for the feast known as the Consoada, which takes place in the wee hours of Christmas Day.

Back at my pensao, the owner’s extended family had congregated in the living room.

“Feliz Natal!” they greeted me, and encouraged me to try some of the traditional food of the Consoada: boiled dry codfish, steamed potatoes, chick peas and vegetables in olive oil followed by doughy sweets and brandy.

Following Portuguese tradition, they had set extra places at the table for the alminhas a penar (the soulsof the dead) and had provided them with food, hoping for good fortune in the coming year. As Ireluctantly headed to my room around 3 a.m., the festivities had not yet wound down.

When I woke later on Christmas morning, there was a hush over the city. Staying up most of the night feasting with the souls of the Consoada had left most Lisboans exhausted. I wandered through the rainy streets for several hours, finding everything closed.

The next day, by contrast, everyone was out. I couldn’t find a place to eat that wasn’t packed to the rafters.

The colourful Christmas lights were visible through gaps in the black sea of umbrellas that formed abobbing roof over the merrymakers. As I fell asleep that night, I would dream about slippery rain on the brightly lit tile streets, which reflected the streetlights.

Now that I am home, I remember those umbrellas, people standing in doorways waiting for the rain to stop, and the Christmas lights shining defiantly through the downpour.

Quaint pubs dot quiet backroads. A Big Mac is unknown in a country pub where one old farmer comments, “I don’t think my dog would like it.” 

BALLYDEHOB, IRELAND – The farmer, leaning hard on his worn cane, a tweed cap shadowing his brow and an oversized wool jacket draped over his large frame, looked at the strangers and said: “McDonald’s? I’m not sure I know it.”

His sun-weathered features provided him with an aspect of permanence that, in spite of his age, made me think he would outlive anyone in the pub. His wife sat upright by his side, a perfect round smudge of rouge applied to each cheek.

I surmised they were out for a rare Sunday lunch but their conduct seemed formal enough for church. I hid my bicycle shorts with my table napkin, although the couple seemed oblivious to the rowdy atmosphere or casual dress around them.

They painted such a perfect portrait of Ireland’s rural past, I was suspicious they had been planted there by some absentee pub owner to give the place charm.

As we contrasted the rural pubs with the fast food culture of Dublin, it was apparent they had never been to Dublin, much less to McDonald’s, although Ballydehob was only a six-hour drive. We tried to describe the concept of a Big Mac and it sounded more and more ridiculous to my ears.

“I don’t think my dog would like it,” the old farmer concluded.

My friend and I were on a 10-day cycling trip through southern Ireland on a tandem bicycle. My job from the rear seat was ridiculously easy – to spot the pubs. The narrow roads seemed made for cycling. The stone fences on either side forced what little traffic there was to drive slowly and give us room. The foliage grew over the road, forming a leafy arbour. We breathed in a steady stream of moist, fragrant air full of honeysuckle and fuchsia.

Our plan was to cycle east to west, from Dublin to Limerick, covering the southern part of the island through counties Wicklow, Wexford and Waterford, ending up in the scenic West Country. We took our chances with accommodation since it was early June, still cool and off-season.

Leaving Dublin was surprisingly easy. Within a half hour, we were in the countryside, then in the Wicklow Mountains. We cycled across Sally Gap, a pass high up in the moors. We climbed steadily, passing bogs and barren lakes. We saw few signs of civilization. The Military Road, as it is known, was built by the British in 1798 to flush out rebel warlords who sought refuge in these mountains when much of southeastern Ireland was loyal to the English crown, within an area around Dublin known as The Pale. Cycling beyond the pale was an eerie experience – riding through thick mist, surrounded by a vast expanse of blanket bog broken only by the odd patch of purple heather. As we approached the town of Laragh, a rewarding downhill ride provided us stunning views of a wide green valley and waterfall, a winding river below.

We found the pub in Laragh and were discussing Ireland’s musical roots when a man sitting beside us joined in. He introduced himself as Ciaran Brennan from the well-known Celtic group, Clannad. He invited us to his house, which we pictured an Irish castle, but we decide not to impose.

“Let’s find our own Irish castle,” I suggested.

We found the Derrybawn House, which was close enough to a castle for me. It even had its own rabbit scampering about on the front lawn, just as every rambling manor house must have. We also seemed to be the only guests.

The gritty city of Cork is built on a hill and as we climbed, the clear view over the rooftops revealed the town’s ancient shape. We chatted over a pint of Beamish with an old man who told us we were in the oldest pub in Ireland, although as my friend reminded me, we were also in the blarney capital of the world. We avoided Blarney Castle and didn’t kiss the Blarney Stone, but our only regret was not having more time to explore the streets of Cork.

We made our way along the coast to the Sheepshead peninsula. We cycled the rugged north side, stopping at a windblown house where a mother and daughter lived, serving tea and selling pottery. The road became worse and worse. We were thoroughly drenched in a cloudburst and just as I thought we would never finish the circuit before dark, we rounded a corner and there was a pub.

Our last night was spent in Limerick. We stopped in front of a rowhouse because we could hear music coming from inside. Couples kept appearing. A head would pop out, scour the street and then usher them in. We approached the door.

“Come in quickly,” a bald-headed man said. We noticed a video monitor and realized they’d been watching us. We had found an after-hours pub. The music was modern, but it was authentically Irish. I felt reassured that the spirit of Ireland is not only found in its past.

It wasn’t until we reached the West Country that I realized we had rarely passed another tourist in 10 days. In most places, we had been welcomed like locals. We felt as though we had most of the country to ourselves.

For more information, go to http://tourismireland.com.

Article appeared in the Toronto Star

LA ENTRADA, HONDURAS – “Feliz Navidad!” cried the 5-year-old girl in the white party dress, cackling with delight each time a firecracker went off.

“Buena, muchacha!” her parents praised her as they handed her another firecracker, beaming proudly.

We arrived in La Entrada, a town a few hours west from Honduras’ business capital, San Pedro Sula, late on Christmas Eve on the first day of our seven-day cycling trip.

We found ourselves without a hotel in complete darkness in this tiny town on the way to Copan, which owes its existence to the junction of two roads. Here, they believe fervently in Christmas and just as fervently, that Christmas means fireworks. They would proceed to set them off all night and into the morning, until they were just too tired to light another.

We found a place to stay and walked around town to investigate. By around 10 p.m., the activity was really intense and each house had a sparkler brigade in front.

Once went off centimeters from my face. We escaped temporarily as we ducked into a place that looked like it might be a bar. Hard to tell, since there were no tables and few chairs. However, they didn’t mind selling us warm beer.

They found some seats and lined them up in front of us like some kind of Honduran stand-off. After a few minutes, we all lapsed into a comfortable silence, though and I was content to drink my beer, which provided me the courage to venture out into the street again to join the pyrotechnics party.

We had to keep walking around dark, dirty, dusty Entrada to find groceries to get us through five hours of pedaling the next day – Christmas. All the stores seemed to sell were chips, pork rinds and Fanta. Giving up on groceries, we left with double chips and pork rinds, all set for a grueling day of cycling, knowing there would be no more opportunities to find food because everything would be closed.

Somehow we managed to sleep through the ear-splitting fireworks going on at the front door of the hotel. When I looked down at about 2 a.m., the same little family responsible for the fireworks when I went to bed were still cheering each other on.

When I got up the next morning all was quiet. I stumbled from the hotel into intensely brilliant sunshine that washed over me in a wave of tropical heat.

A gentle breeze caressed me as we began to cycle. Even La Entrada didn’t look too bad on Christmas Day. Within an hour, we found ourselves in bucolic farmland.

“Sin botella!” “Without the bottle!” the woman at the store urged. We wanted me to drink the Fanta without the bottle to save me having to pay for it, as I attempted to quench my raging thirst.

I gave her back the bottle and she poured the Fanta into a little plastic baggie, inserted a straw and handed it to me. I gulped it back and asked for another baggie-full.

As we cycled through the hilly terrain of Honduras, at each village we came to we found the beer was warm, the juice non-existent, and the coffee instant; only the Fanta was cold, delicious and plentiful.

We were reminded more of England than of anything Central American as we whizzed by the pastoral Honduran farms.

Here, finally, there were no fireworks, no dust, not even traffic. Only rolling fields, which were becoming terraced as we headed into the mountains. We struggled up the hairpin curves, relishing the long downhills.

It is customary for the drivers of passing cars to honk, the louder, the better and then laugh as they pass. They were usually pickup trucks, packed with eight to ten people in the back. No Hondurans cycle, it seems, except one lone man with a load of firewood who was weaving his way precariously uphill.

As we passed him, he looked startled, then grinned and waved, echoing a “Hola” to our “Holas”. By the end of the day, at that magic hour just before the sun sets, we were rewarded with a heavenly downhill ride past villages and farms, a winding river valley opening up in front of us, the mountains retreating behind. Honduras was now as serene and peaceful as it had been raucous and noisy the night before.

For more information on Honduras, go to www.hondurastips.honduras.com.