Manual Rua Desert Bloom (The Journey Book 1)

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I make my way back to the Torel Avantgarde, intent on collapsing onto my bed, but cannot resist having a quick nightcap on the balcony. It's a moonless night, and I have trouble distinguishing the river from the hillside from the sky. I try to focus on a cluster of lights dancing on the water, but before long these too are gone. The view from Alves de Sousa Vineyard. If there's anything that can shake the piety of Porto residents, it's pride in their beloved Douro Valley. A luxurious, resort-like property, The Yeatman occupies a hillside overlooking the port houses, its terraced design echoing the sculpted hillsides of the Douro.

I sit outside for a while, nibbling on pastries and looking down at the muddled rooftops, then head out to meet Miguel, the Tours By Locals guide who will be driving me today. Fishing in the Douro Pinhao. We make our way along a series of ever-narrowing roads, emerging into a landscape that doesn't quite seem real.

First, the perspectives are all off, the lines of the terraced slopes meeting at odd angles, creating a geometric jumble that would do Escher proud. The vines, lit by the morning sun, appear as a Pointillist fluorescence of red, gold, and green. Now and then, the terraces dip into a misty valley, their muted colors somehow lovelier than before.

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Even Miguel, who up until now has been delivering a running commentary on historical treaties and grape varieties, falls silent. A Dionysian repose at the Yeatman. The hands and feet of an effigy in the church have been worn smooth by centuries of hopeful rub- bing. Another scenic drive brings us to our second stop, the Alves de Sousa vineyard.

We are greeted in the main building by a young man named Tiago, a fifth-generation winemaker who leads us to a window overlooking a dappled valley. Below, wisps of bonfire smoke rise through the mist as if the place needed any more atmosphere. From here, we climb into a 4x4 and head along a narrow, rutted path. To our right is a steep, probably lethal drop, but Tiago seems unconcerned, pointing this way and that while discussing soil acidity, sun variation, and olive trees. Finally, we stop at a high rocky patch they call Abandonado because the family long ago gave up trying to grow anything on it.

In , Tiago badgered his dad into letting him give the disused plot one last try and planted a variety of grapes that has produced some of the winery's best bottles. While much of Paula's food derives from his grandmother's recipes, he likes to throw in the odd subversive element, which he puts down to the vagaries of memory rather than new-fangled theory. Our last activity of the day is a boat ride along the Douro, an hour-long trip that takes us past a patchwork of fiery red terraces and small wine houses, interspersed with the green puffs of olive trees.

It's a glorious spectacle. I wonder what it would taste like. We arrive back at the Yeatman an hour or so before dinner, leaving me with just enough time for the wine-bath spa treatment I've booked. The wine extract is supposed to relax the muscles and hydrate the skin, but, given that there's a stranger behind me massaging my head and I'm clad in nothing but a flimsy pouch, I'm just happy for its water-clouding qualities. I'm dining tonight at the hotel's Michelin-starred The Restaurant , a gastronomic experience that starts with my napkin being deposited onto my lap with tongs and ends with a glass of prized Croft port.

The highlight for me is the chicken oysters served with crispy skin. I end the night in the hotel lounge, serenaded by a young woman singing fado, the mournful Portuguese folk music whose dominant themes are love and loss. She clutches her hands before her chest, crooning about souls who sailed away, the golden leaves of home, stuff like that—but otherwise she seems perfectly happy. I check out of the Yeatman and head into town for one last bout of sightseeing, which begins in the exquisite lobby of the Infante Sagres , the grande dame of Porto's hotels.

Which is not to say that the soul goes hungry. The Majestic opened in , and beyond its Art Nouveau doorway you enter a beguiling world of carved wood, burnished mirrors, white-coated waiters, and smiling cherubs. The Hogwarts-esque Livraria Lello. Dating back to , the Lello is still the heart of the city's cultural scene, despite the hordes of Instagrammers who descend on the place today, bent on snapping the stained-glass roof, elaborate carvings, and swirling double-sided stairway.

A young J. Rowling used to spend a lot of time here, and it's impossible not to see Hogwarts at every turn. Just up from here is Rua de Miguel Bombarda, a buzzy strip where the walls are adorned with graffiti and every other shopfront is an independent gallery. Also nearby is the Museu Nacional Soares dos Reis , with a collection ranging from 17th-century ceramics to 20th-century portraits to, um, a life-size sculpture of a horse with a wooden leg and a pair of silvery underpants hanging off its rear end. A stairway from the ultra-hip Mini Bar. The tradition is said to date back to the Age of Discovery, when intrepid explorers sailed away with the choice cuts of meat and those who stayed behind got everything else.

At one point, the chef comes out and I ask him what's in the bowl. The Mini Bar's shrimp ceviche. I decide to burn off the offal with a stroll along the Atlantic coast, so I take a cab to Matosinhos, a fishing town a few miles north of the city, then walk south, dodging the massive waves battering the sea wall.

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At the end of one broad beach I find Lais de Guia, a small bar with a sea- front patio, where I stand and watch the churning water. My walk ends at Foz do Douro, a colorful district dotted with bars and restaurants. Here, next to a squat fort, I join a crowd of locals watching as the waves engulf a nearby lighthouse. Chef Jose Avillez. Damp, I catch another cab back into town for a pre-prandial Negroni at the Royal Cocktail Club , a hip, low-lit bar just around the corner from my hotel.

Seated in the corner of the red-hued dining area, chill-out music ringing in my ears, I inspect the menu, which lists a starter called Ferrero Rocher like the chocolate. Nothing is as it seems.

Places visited on this holiday

After the onslaught of food I've received during my time here, I'm relieved that these are all small plates. I'm also happy to find that the playfulness of the menu doesn't come at the expense of taste. Everything—even the chocolate starter, which is actually made of foie gras—is delicious. I end the night at Bonaparte Downtown, a lively, quirky bar filled to the rafters with bric-a-brac: tennis rackets, cowbells, creepy dolls, vintage walkie-talkies, a black-and-white photo of a chimp eating soup with a spoon.

It's a fantastic place, but it's also late, and there's a large, comfortable bed waiting for me nearby.

A spiked riot of original architecture. A vintage boulevard where everyone speaks Spanish. The wellspring of the blues. The birthplace of house music.

Father John de Marchi, I.M.C,

The way you think about Chicago depends entirely on which part of it you've been to. The city of 2. And then, in the next neighborhood, everything all over again, only this time there's a beach, and the taquerias have been replaced by German beer halls.

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Like the river that made it, the Windy City is different every time you set foot in it. The first time I visited Chicago, I was in awe of its surreal, hyperambitious restaurants. The second time, I was amazed by its towering, audacious buildings. The third time, a random guy invited me to his housewarming party. This is the story of the fourth time.

Diving into Lake Michigan.

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I am pretty sure that if you're good in this life, when you get to the pearly gates, St. Peter hands you a kitten-soft robe from the Art Deco St.

This is what we all wear up here. A room at the Art Deco St. Jane Hotel. OK, fine, I'll get coffee. The St. Jane is inside Chicago's Loop, so named for the circuit the elevated subway system called the L travels around it. Its endlessness always shocks me; today it fades into mist at its far edge.

The Chicago River, seen from the St. But Chicago is not all, or even mostly, the lake. From the top deck of the Chicago's First Lady , downtown's high-rises loom like the cliffs of a Utah canyon. We cross under bridges with just a few feet of leeway, learning how the city came to architecturally dominate the United States. Nancy, the volunteer docent leading the tour, fills in the cracks OK, chasms in my architectural education: In high-rises, the term spandrel refers to the space between the window tops on one floor and the sills above; the Great Chicago Fire of crossed the river because the water was full of wooden boats; yes, Art Deco buildings do kind of look like armchairs.

We learn the similarities between Bertrand Goldberg's Marina City, its lobes like the petals of a hippie's daisy pin, and his River City, a Brutalist, organic cliff dwelling. We see North Riverside, the ballerina, cantilevered over the river in defiance of God and physics. If I remember even half of what Nancy says, I'll have dinner party factoids for years.