The Aegean cradles me in her arms, my lips tasting of salt, the sky above a brilliant Cycladian blue. I can hear the muffled grind of ship's screws and sea-life crawling on the floor of the lagoon as I float effortlessly in the shadow of Apollo's Gate. This, I know, will be a memory I will return to frequently in the years to come and one of the reasons I wanted to visit the island. The island has already settled into me, sneaking into my heart before I even know it is there.

But before I floated weightless in the Aegean’s quiet embrace, my wife and I had first glimpsed Naxos from the deck of the Blue Star ferry, watching the island unfold before us as the captain swung the ship with a practiced 180-degree pivot, perfectly aligning the ramp against the end of the tarmac. Late afternoon light draped the island in hues of honey and blue, like chiffon caught on a breeze, already fading into the amber blush of dusk. Drawn by promises of crystalline waters and the famous gate perched high on its bluff, watching over the sea on one side and the harbor on the other, we approached Naxos with eager eyes. Blue shutters and bursts of pink bougainvillea played a fleeting game of hide and seek through narrow alleys, disappearing and reappearing as we moved closer to shore. My wife and I disembarked in quiet anticipation, the cool air carrying the promise of timeless evenings beneath Apollo’s Gate and days spent exploring an island alive with myth. This island, unassuming, ancient, alive with whispers of history, felt like a reprieve. Less polished than Santorini, less restless than Mykonos, Naxos is the Cyclades’ soul laid bare. Homer may have lingered here too long, I thought—not for the pull of sirens or the fury of storms, but because this place calls you to pause, to anchor, to remember what it feels like to belong.

After settling into our hotel, we walked to Apollo’s Gate, where the ancient stone framed a masterpiece of nature. The setting sun cast its golden light through the storied rectangle, illuminating the rugged stone and tracing the silhouettes of couples gazing at the sea below. The breeze carried whispers of salt, while the murmur of travelers speaking in hushed tones mingled with the gentle rhythm of waves against the harbor. Children darted between the rocks as we sat on the stones, watching the sun linger in one direction and the moon rise in the other, their light brushing the surrounding grass and flowers with hues of rose and silver. The air felt weighty with time, with history, as we sat among other travelers, strangers bound by awe, united in reverence for the moment where we decided to stop, to listen, and to belong.

Reluctantly, we made our way down the bluff in search of dinner and a glass of raki, watching as evening spread across the harbor. As the evening's shadows lengthened across the white-washed village, my wife and I found ourselves on the second floor of a harbor-side taverna with a view of Apollo’s Gate. We took a seat at a small table on a balcony overlooking the water and ordered. Soon, we were presented with a platter of seafood, zucchini fritters, and a plate of saganaki, which hissed and spit in the small, scalding hot cast-iron skillet before being set aflame by the waiter using a bit of ouzo.

I took a bite, and the world narrowed to the salt, the heat, the slow bloom of anise from the flambé. The cheese was rich and salty, both creamy and just crumbly enough, the warmth of anise lingering from the ouzo flame. As I savored each bite, gratitude washed over me—gratitude for this meal, for this island, for the weight of history pressing softly against the present. These were the simple pleasures that made travel so valuable. The memories we can return to when our daily life begins to feel monochrome and desaturated.

Paying the bill, we made our way back to the hotel with a small bottle of Metaxa, a new-to-us spirit that we had discovered earlier in the day. As the last embers of the sunset faded, we lingered on our balcony, sipping the local brandy, watching a lone sailboat carve its way home across the darkening sea. The hush of night folded around us, lulling the island into the deep and measured breath of sleep.

Morning arrived in quiet strokes of silver and gold, the air still cool from the night but laced with the hint of a warm afternoon. I slipped out while Rebecca prepared for the day, following the gentle pull of a bakery we had glimpsed the day before. The water, iridescent and impossibly blue, stretched lazily beyond the stark white buildings that framed the harbor. I walked along the curve of the protected bay, the hush of morning briefly interrupted by the jarring clang of a tiny garbage truck, its mechanical arm lifting bins, emptying them into the waiting container before retreating into the quiet.

Turning onto the main shopping street of the town, the bakery stood on the corner, its windows full of promise. A bell rang as I entered, and I was met with a rush of warmth, the intoxicating perfume of butter and yeast wrapping around me. Behind the glass, golden pastries gleamed like treasure, waiting to be chosen. Outside, Naxos awakened slowly, but here, inside this little shop, the day was already in full bloom.

With coffee and breakfast in hand, I wandered back to the hotel, eager to lose myself in the warren of whitewashed alleys, where charcoal stone streets curved beneath bursts of pink blossoms spilling over doorways and terraces. We sat quietly at the same table as the night before, the morning hush brushing past us, soft and fleeting, as we sipped our coffee and shared a flaky, still-warm pastry. We broke it apart between sips of coffee, watching as the last of the fishing boats slipped from the harbor, their bows tilting toward deeper waters, toward the promise of the day’s first haul.

Finishing our coffee, we stepped out of the hotel, drawn into the first small street we came across—the town pulling us deeper and deeper into its sun-bleached maze. Bougainvillea exploded in crimson against marble and stone buildings, blue doors and white-bordered granite streets beckoning us deeper into the city’s embrace. A chorus of indifferent cats watched from their perches, tails flicking as we meandered mapless through the alleys and passageways. Climbing higher above the port, we eventually—and happily—arrived at the top of a large hill and the Archaeological Museum of Naxos, where we viewed the tile mosaics while the town unfurled beneath us.

After exploring the museum and once again losing ourselves in the whitewashed warren—this time descending instead of climbing—we emerged onto the street lining the harbor. Just ahead, a tiny white church floated on a cement island, accessible only by small boat. Outside the waterfront restaurants, octopus draped over lines like yesterday’s wash, slowly tenderizing under the afternoon sun in preparation for the evening’s service. We chose a table with a view of the church and lingered over a gloriously simple meal of horiatiki, shawarma, and golden-crisp Greek potatoes, their edges glistening with olive oil and flecked with tiny diamonds of salinity.

We wished we could stretch the meal into the soft light of late afternoon and stay in the rhythm and lazy cadence the island had instilled in us, but our bags waited, and a ferry was set to take us on the next leg of our own odyssey with Naxos still folded into us.

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Recipe

Greek Saganaki

Saganaki is a delicious and simple Greek appetizer made with cheese and a few pantry staples. Here is a traditional recipe for making saganaki at home:

Ingredients:

• 1/4 cup all-purpose flour

• 8 oz Kasseri cheese. You can substitute with halloumi, Manchego, or paneer as well.

• 2 tablespoons olive oil

• 1/4 cup (2 ounces) ouzo

Instructions:

1. Slice the cheese lengthwise, 1/2-inch to 1-inch thick.

2. Sprinkle flour evenly over a large plate and dip the cheese in the flour, dredging until lightly coated on all sides.

3. In a small cast-iron or stainless steel skillet over high heat, heat the oil until it shimmers.

4. Carefully place the flour-coated cheese into the oil. Remember to lay the cheese in away from you.

5. Fry on one side about 2 minutes until golden and crisp. Then flip, again flipping away from you, and fry the other side another 2 minutes until golden and just starting to melt.

6. Remove from the heat.

7. Have a pot lid handy in case you need to cover the pan to suppress the flames and make sure that nothing is hanging over the pan.

8. Pour the ouzo over the cheese. DO NOT POUR DIRECTLY FROM THE BOTTLE.

9. Using a stick lighter or long match, carefully set the ouzo aflame.

10. As the cheese flambes, carefully shake the pan gently to help disperse the flame until extinguished and the alcohol is burned off.

11. Serve immediately.

When the Good Lord begins to doubt the world, he remembers that he created Provence. — Frederic Mistral

Jump to Recipe

In the gilded haze of late afternoon, the Provençal breeze tangled with whispers of lavender and thyme, mingling with the sunlit warmth of terracotta walls, while French jazz spilled softly from the car radio. Roads, dappled by the green canopy of plane trees, led us through the Luberon valley, where Provence slowly unfolded in ochre walls, silver olive trees, vineyards, and of course, fields of sunflowers that rippled like the sea. Our journey from London had been a blur of trains, highways, and anticipation, punctuated by a stop at a small vegetable market and the first taste of the bounty of the area before finishing at a hilltop village that seemed to have stepped out of a painter’s imagination.

This was Provence as I had dreamed it—timeless, welcoming, and alive with adventures waiting to be embarked. This was not the polished charm of Saint-Rémy or the grandeur of Orange, but a quieter rhythm—a hilltop village suspended in time, luring us with its unassuming grace. In the Luberon, time seemed to stretch and soften, like the shadows across the valley—measured not by hours but by the rise of the sun and the clink of glasses at dusk.

When we arrived, the cobblestones carried echoes of centuries, leading us to a weathered door nestled above the ramparts. Once inside, we descended into the apartment we had booked, a space steeped in history. The cool stone walls and vaulted ceilings offered a refuge shaped not only by time but by purpose. Through arched windows, the forest stretched endlessly, and the raspy sound of cigalles echoed across the valley. At one point, this had been a private chapel for the bishop, a sanctuary during time of war with the Protestant village of Lacoste across the valley. Standing within its walls, I couldn’t help but imagine the prayers whispered here echoing against the stone. The air, still cool and laced with rosemary and pine, seemed to hold fragments of those moments, as if the chapel’s history lingered in the quiet. It was spacious and cave like and it was perfect.

We had chosen this village because of a video, a fleeting moment of joy where its residents, with unguarded exuberance, danced to Pharrell’s “Happy.” It felt like a secret shared just for us, an invitation to step into a story still being written. The entire village, priests included, participated. After watching the video a few times it felt like we knew the shopkeeper, the bakers, the hairdresser, the restaurant owners, and their children. I found myself thinking that if I was going to risk spending a birthday in an unknown place, I would want it to be a place like this with those who knew unguarded joy.

With our bags set down and having been introduced to our unexpected outer hall roommate, a small, still sleeping bat we christened Vincent, we ventured out into the village, letting the cobblestones guide us, their whispers older than the ramparts themselves. A short walk down streets bordered by honey-colored facades, down winding stone stairways, and past the florist, the Utile, and two bolangeries, we found Brasserie La Terrazza nestled snugly against the hill. Across the road, the valley stretched wide, bathed in the fading glow of late afternoon.

We claimed one of the last open spots, eager to savor not just the meal but the unfolding enchantment of Provence. This was my introduction to Bonnieux, a perch above a valley that seemed to stretch endlessly, shimmering with the promise of vineyards, orchards, and hidden paths waiting to be wandered. Below, the land whispered its magic in golden fields and emerald rows, a vast tapestry inviting us to step into its folds and lose ourselves in its secrets.

The Brasserie's cuisine was Italian, but in a nod to at least the country, if not the region, the pizza of the day was an Alsace style flatbread with caramelized onion jam, ham and Gruyere. We ordered the pizza and a carafe of local red and watched as the light moved from evening towards sunset.

The pizza was a delight of the senses and even given its origins, one-hundred percent Provençal. The crust was crisp with darkly toasted bubbles around the edge, the inside tender with a bit of chew, sweet with a slight tang. There was just the touch of tomato sauce, the onions caramelized to a jammy texture with thyme and a bit of honey taking up the main support role, topped with the best French ham, Gruyere, and briny whole black olives.

There is an alchemy that happens between the dish that you are eating and the place where it is eaten. And with that pizza, overlooking that view, the moment reached its perfect harmony. It was as if that one moment was the exact reason for which the restaurant was created. We sat. We sipped. We sighed.

Satiated, we lingered as the sun dropped below the horizon and the lights of the valley began to twinkle. And then, more magic. Across the street, next to the restaurant with just enough room for the occasional car to pass, a French jazz and blues band set up for their nightly set. They played. People started to dance. And we sat content watching night bathe the land. As the carafe emptied and the final notes of jazz dissolved into the warm night, I felt Provence etch itself into memory—not as a place, but as a rhythm to carry forward.

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Recipe

Alsace Flatbread Bonnieux

INGREDIENTS

For the Dough:

• 2 cups flour, plus more for dusting

• 1 1/2 tsp dry yeast

• 1 tsp salt

• 1 cup plain Greek yogurt, 5% is best, but you can use non-fat if preferred

• 1 tbsp honey

• 1/3 cup water

For the Toppings:

• 2 medium yellow onions, sliced thin

• 1 tbsp honey

• 1 tbsp fresh thyme, chopped

• 4 slices French ham, torn. Can use thinly sliced deli ham or Black Forest ham as well.

• 1 1/2 cups Gruyere, grated

• 1/4 cup whole Kalamata olives, pitted

INSTRUCTIONS

For the Dough:

I like the ease of making this in a food processor, however you can make it by hand in a large bowl. If stirring by hand, I like to use the handle of a wooden spoon so that it doesn’t overwork the gluten.

1. In a food processor, add the flour, yeast, and salt, and pulse about 5 seconds until well combined.

2. Add the yogurt, honey, and water and process until a small ball forms. If the dough is not tacky to the touch and sticking slightly to the sides of the bowl, add water one tablespoon at a time, pulsing until incorporated. The dough should be shiny and elastic.

3. Transfer the dough to a lightly floured surface and knead the dough with flowered hands until it forms a smooth ball.

4. Divide the dough in half and form each half into a tight ball

5. Place the balls of dough about six inches apart on the floured surface and cover with plastic wrap.

6. Let dough rise until doubled in size. About 1 to 1 1/2 hours.

7. An hour before backing, pre-heat oven to 500°F. If using a baking stone place the stone on the middle rack to heat as well.

8. Gently stretch each ball on a lightly floured surface into a circle or an oval six inches by 12 inches.

For the Pizza:

1. In a skillet, cook the onions over medium heat until they are caramelized and have broken down, about 25 to 30 minutes

2. Add honey and thyme and cook an additional ten minutes util the onions have broken down and the consistency is jammy. Remove to a bowl and let cool.

3. Once the oven is heated and the dough is ready, top each dough with the onion mixture, spreading evenly.

4. Place small piles of the shredded cheese across the onion mixture, leaving pockets where there is no cheese.

5. Tear the ham and place around the pizzas in the places where there is no cheese.

6. Sprinkle the black olives evenly across the top of each pizza.

7. Bake pizzas for 15-20 minutes until the crust is golden brown and the cheese is melted and beginning to bubble.

8. Remove pizzas from oven and drizzle with a bit of honey and top with fresh thyme.

The morning fog draped the alley in a veil of vapor turned silk. Weightless yet tangible, it bathed the city in a muffled grey softness. The fog seemed to hold Venice’s secrets in its pearly fingers. My wife stirred me awake, guiding me barefoot across the cool tiles to the bathroom’s vent window. Together, we balanced on our toes, peering out into a scene as if the moment had been captured by a Venetian master. Beneath us, a lone carabinieri drifted down the alley like a shadow, his footsteps muffled in the mist as the domes of San Marco floated beyond.

This was Venice unveiled, revealing herself as she does only in the quiet hours—still, contemplative, sacred. Absent were the throngs from cruise ships. In their place, silence wrapped the city in an embrace as ancient as the stones beneath it. Venice holds her mysteries in mist. Her secrets, like the city itself, are best revealed when the world is still. To glimpse the true Venice requires patience, a willingness to court her silences and shadows. It is only then, absent of crowds and the flags of tour guides, that you begin to breathe in time with her.

To know a place—to really know a place—to understand the people, the culture, and the food more than a tourist requires courting its contradictions; the polished and the crumbling, the music and the silences. It requires time spent wandering, unhurried, with moments clocked not in itineraries but in quiet revelations—the lingering gaze at a cracked fresco, the unexpected warmth of a baker’s smile at dawn. Familiarity comes not from the sights we seek but from those we surprise ourselves with, from the city revealing itself in unguarded moments. Like a good friend whose faults you know and still love, truly knowing a place takes risk. In the end, you may not like what you see when you look beyond the veneer.

Charles Kuralt, famed for his long-running series On the Road, understood the rhythm of a place. He spent a lifetime meandering through America’s backroads, listening for the stories towns tucked into river bends and whispered to those who lingered. His travels taught me that time is the only key that unlocks a city’s heart. In one of his books, Kuralt wrote about visiting twelve beloved places during their optimal seasons, staying in each for two weeks. He wasn’t a tourist ticking sights off a list, but a quiet observer slipping into the rhythm of local life. “It takes a week just to stop being a stranger,” he noted. “It takes another to begin seeing.”

I’ve found Kuralt’s wisdom to hold true in my own travels. The places that remain with me are those where I’ve slowed long enough to let them unfold, where the rush of itineraries gives way to unhurried moments. It’s in those pauses, when a city stops performing for visitors and simply is, that its true character emerges. A slow unspooling of time allows a place to stop being merely scenery and start becoming part of you. And you a part of it.

This time need not be taken in one stretch. It can be gathered over multiple visits, layered like memories. The first week is for the obvious landmarks—the museums, the piazzas, the vistas that postcards promise. But it is in the second week, when you no longer need a map, that the true city begins to reveal itself. The barista recognizes you and begins to make your espresso with a nod. The bakery door chimes, and you know what pastry to ask for without hesitation. The cheesemonger guides you to the perfectly ripe camembert and perhaps suggests a local cheese and which wine to pair it with. It’s then that a place begins to breathe in sync with you, its hidden music woven into its streets like a tune you hum without realizing you’ve carried it home.

There was the Prince of Wales, a nondescript pub in the Pimlico neighborhood of London, where I spent afternoons with a pint of cask ale and the Evening Standard. The worn carpet softening the murmur of conversations, and the day’s end felt shared in a quiet communion. Or mornings in the Armenian Quarter of Jerusalem, perched on a rooftop with coffee, as the market below came to life, its sounds rising like the city’s breath. I remember a dove—a pure local, no doubt—who arrived each morning to eye my breakfast with shameless hope. And the Aegean, warm and endless, where I floated under Apollo’s Gate, the ruins above framed by the vastness of sea and sky. Nothing pressed on me except the promise of dinner at our favorite taverna. These are the moments that matter. These are the whispers a place offers only when you’ve stopped long enough to hear them.

A place’s true rhythm is never found in its grand monuments or bustling streets. It reveals itself in the spaces in between, in quiet alleys and dawn markets, in the sound of footsteps fading into mist. It’s only when we slow down, when we let ourselves linger in those silences, that we begin to truly see. And it’s there, in those fleeting moments, that a place leaves its mark on us—echoing long after we’ve left, like a song we never quite forget. We leave places behind, but their whispers stay with us. In the quiet moments, long after we've returned, we find ourselves hearing their echoes again, reminding us to slow down and listen.

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After a twenty-minute drive east of Chania along the coast, threading through a maze of unmarked left turns, we found ourselves in the historic Tabakaria neighborhood of Halepa. The narrow alley, barely accommodating our car, ended at a secluded gem tucked near the weathered ruins of 19th-century tanning factories. We stepped out into a tableau of crates stacked haphazardly against a white-washed wall, the annoyed glare of a curious feline, and the faint, savory whisper of something simmering just out of sight. A warm breeze carried with it the unmistakable tang of the sea, and the late afternoon sun began to cast elongated shadows over the harsh stone. This was a place that held its secrets tightly, revealing them only to those who sought them with intention. It was not a place one stumbled upon. We had come early, eager not only to sample the food but to soak in the view, one that seemed to define the essence of a Greek seaside taverna.

Even knowing its existence, a flutter of uncertainty followed me until we reached the rear, where perfection revealed itself. An unassuming outdoor dining space emerged, its size only restricted by the waves that lapped against the rocks at the edge of the tables. Yellow umbrellas cast soft pools of shade over wooden chairs, their timeworn texture inviting, as if shaped by years of sea air. Blue-and-white checkered tablecloths, covered with crisp white cloths placed just at an angle, created a playful yet elegant interplay of patterns that mirrored the contrast of sky and sea.

Thalassino Ageri belongs to two brothers whose collaboration seems born of the sea itself. One curates the catch, combing the waves with practiced hands, while the other transforms it into dishes that taste of Crete—sunlit and timeless. Inside, you select your fish from a display glistening with the day’s haul: squid, shrimp, sea urchin, or whatever the Aegean has offered that morning. The seafood, weighed and sold whole, arrives at your table simply prepared: grilled or simmered in a sauce of golden olive oil, ripe tomatoes, and local herbs. The raki flows freely, its sharp sweetness pairing perfectly with the briny tang of the plates. Yet it is outside where the magic lingers, each table arranged so the horizon becomes a companion. Here, simplicity is not just a virtue; it is a celebration of what the sea gives, and what the brothers have learned to honor. With the Cretan sunset igniting the horizon, we understood this was going to be more than a meal; it would be a memory, rooted in place and time, delicate and enduring.

As we settled into our meal, savoring the tender, charred edges of our grilled octopus appetizer, a drama unfolded at the table beside us, punctuating the taverna’s tranquil rhythm. The rise of a Frenchman’s voice disrupted the gentle murmur of conversation and the sound of waves lapping against the rocks. His indignation spilled out in clipped phrases, the fragments we caught revealing his misunderstanding: the price was per kilo, your cost was for the entire fish. His companions shifted uncomfortably, their embarrassment as palpable as the tang of the sea breeze, while the waiter stood impassive, his expression seasoned by countless similar exchanges.

It was a stark reminder of Thalassino Ageri’s quiet defiance: a haven for those who understood its essence. Here, the appeal lay not in catering to fleeting visitors but in a devotion to the sea’s gifts and the unadorned beauty of the Cretan table. The waiter, unfazed, turned away, the moment dissolving as effortlessly as the octopus melted on our tongues. The taverna’s soul endured, unshaken by threats of departure, as timeless as the sunset casting its golden light upon the water.

As the evening deepened, the sea darkened to ink and the sky flared briefly before settling into a velvet blackness, punctuated by the soft, distant lights of Chania. We lingered long after the plates were cleared, the raki warming our veins and the salt air easing our souls. There, at the edge of the Aegean, time softened, and the taverna became more than a place—it was a compass, pointing back to something elemental and true. A reminder that some meals are like the pull of the tide or the glint of sunlight on the water. They are eternal. Grounding. They remind us of the ephemeral beauty of simply being alive.

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We arrived in Chania aboard the Blue Star Ferry at dawn, just as the Mediterranean sun cast its first watercolor strokes across the hard, tan hills, bleeding daylight into the dark. It was our maiden ferry ride in Greece, a transition as much of spirit as of geography, after days spent tracing the ruins of Athens, the cliffs of Meteora, and the mountain groves of Delphi. This ferry crossing was a threshold, a prelude to Crete’s lessons in unhurried living – lessons learned through experience, not explanation.

There is a moment in Casablanca where a young husband, flush with roulette winnings, eagerly announces his plans to visit Captain Renault in the morning. “We’ll be there at six,” he says, to which Renault replies, dry as gin, “I’ll be there at ten.” I recalled this exchange during my conversation with the rental car proprietor. Our ferry, I explained, would dock at 6:00 a.m., and I wanted to confirm someone would meet us then. His reply was disarmingly serene: “Yes, of course. Someone will be there at eight.” I repeated, slowly, that we arrived at six. Again, the same answer: “Yes. At eight.”

Onboard, the mystery unraveled. While the ferry did indeed dock at six, passengers were not required to disembark until two hours later. Those two hours, cushioned in quiet repose, were an unexpected gift: a proper night’s sleep and easy morning. It was a lesson imparted by a man who knew his ferry schedules better than I knew my own impatience to see the island. We were now on Greek time. Every island moves to its own rhythm, but Crete seems surpassed only by the Caribbean in its indifference to the clock. Here, the numbers on a dial mean less than the currents of the day, the breeze of what is happening now.

After arriving, we meandered through the small market near the ferry terminal. A place where the rhythms of life play out in their simplest, most telling forms. Markets are the pulse of a place, and this one was no exception. The air was thick with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the tang of sea-salt brine from the fish stalls. I love the noise, the smells, the tangible histories wrapped in each aisle. These are always my first stops in any new city. We wandered among stalls of vegetables, honey-glazed nuts, and slabs of fresh meat displayed by the butcher. At one corner, we paused for paper cups of dark Greek coffee, its bitterness a jolt of clarity before we headed toward the harbor for breakfast.

Rounding the fort at one side of the harbor entrance, Chania unfolded like a painted fan. The semi-circular port was lined with pastel Venetian buildings, their facades weathered by sun and sea. The waters shimmered in teal and sapphire. Here was a place both layered and singular: part Grecian, part Venetian, part Ottoman, and entirely Cretan.

We settled at a café near the mosque, its domed structure poised like a quiet guardian, both perfectly situated and out of place at the same time. This, too, was Crete—a harmony of opposites, where contrasts don’t collide but coexist, creating something greater than the sum of their parts. Over coffee and a breakfast of toasted bread,golden Greek potatoes, kalitsounia with their delicate, flaky shells cradling mizithra cheese and kissed with thyme honey, and dakos, the barley rusks crowned with tomato, thyme, oregano, olives, and a sharp, tangy hint of mizithra—the city began to stir. Around us, the streets exhaled the remnants of sleep, their murmurs folding gently into the warmth of the morning.

Crete, we learned, does not rush to meet you. It unfolds, slowly and deliberate, like the first sip of a strong coffee or the long shadows of an afternoon sun. That morning in Chania, as the harbor shimmered and the pedestrian streets whispered themselves awake, we began to shed the urgency we had carried with us. Here, time stretched and softened, measured not by the clock but by the rhythm of the island itself. We lingered at the café, letting Crete speak in its quiet way. A language of sunlight, salt, and the unhurried dance of opposites. In that stillness, we felt not like travelers passing through but like guests welcomed into its ancient embrace.

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Recipe

Greek Kalitsounia

Recipe for Traditional Cretan Sweet Cheese Pastries

Ingredients

For the Dough:

• 3 ½ cups (500g) all-purpose flour

• ½ cup (120ml) olive oil

• ½ cup (120ml) orange juice

• 1 tablespoon raki or brandy (optional)

• ½ teaspoon salt

• 1 teaspoon baking powder

• 2-3 tablespoons lukewarm water (if needed)

For the Filling:

• 1 lb (450g) fresh myzithra cheese or ricotta cheese (drained)

• 3 tablespoons sugar

• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or zest of 1 lemon/orange

• 1 egg

For Frying or Baking:

• Olive oil (for frying, optional)

• 1 egg (beaten, for brushing if baking)

For Garnish:

• Honey

• Ground cinnamon

Instructions

Step 1: Prepare the Dough

1. In a mixing bowl, combine the flour, salt, and baking powder.

2. Gradually add olive oil and mix until crumbly.

3. Stir in the orange juice and raki (if using).

4. Knead the dough until smooth, adding lukewarm water if necessary to achieve the right consistency.

5. Cover with a clean towel and let rest for 30 minutes.

Step 2: Prepare the Filling

1. In another bowl, mix the cheese, sugar, vanilla extract (or zest), and egg until smooth.

2. Set aside.

Step 3: Roll Out and Fill

1. Roll out the dough on a floured surface to about ⅛ inch (3mm) thickness.

2. Cut the dough into 4-inch (10cm) circles using a cutter or glass.

3. Place a spoonful of filling in the center of each circle.

4. Fold the dough over the filling into a half-moon shape or gather the edges slightly for a decorative look. Press firmly to seal.

Step 4: Fry or Bake

• Frying: Heat olive oil in a deep pan. Fry the kalitsounia until golden on both sides. Remove and drain on paper towels.

• Baking: Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C). Place kalitsounia on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Brush with beaten egg and bake for 20-25 minutes or until golden.

Step 5: Garnish and Serve

1. Drizzle warm honey over the kalitsounia.

2. Sprinkle with cinnamon.

3. Serve warm or at room temperature.

Nutritional Information (Per Serving)

(Approximately 1 kalitsouni, based on 12 servings)

• Calories: 200

• Protein: 5g

• Carbohydrates: 23g

• Fat: 10g

• Saturated Fat: 2.5g

• Sugar: 5g

• Fiber: 1g

• Sodium: 80mg

Note: Nutritional values are approximate and will vary based on ingredients and preparation method.

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The young coachman at Brugge’s Markt Square stood tall beside his carriage, the leather reins coiled loosely in his gloved hands. I approached him, reflexively greeting him with a sprightly “Bonjour.” A slight mistake. His lips curved in a polite smile, his voice tempered with patience. “A small piece of advice, if I may? Here, it is more polite to begin in English, rather than French, if you don’t know Flemish.” His words hung in the chilled air, a gentle reminder of Flanders’ ties to the Dutch-speaking world. “Not so much for my generation,” he continued, “but there are still grudges within the older population.”

“How do you say hello in Flemish?” I asked.

“Hoeijendagh,” he replied, breaking it into careful syllables. “Or you can just say, dak.”

Thus, I was inducted into Brugge's subtle cultural code, one of the many secrets tucked into its cobblestone streets. Known as the Venice of the North, Brugge unfolded before us in labyrinthine canals, Gothic spires, and the rhythmic clop of hooves against stone—a city that invites lingering. A thirty-minute carriage ride offered glimpses of the Princely Beguinage, where pious women once prayed for their benefactors’ souls, and Apollo’s chariot statue, its frozen gallop a testament to Brugge's eternal motion. Our horse, Seanna, introduced with a fond pat, quickened her pace instinctively as we passed the statue, her hooves drumming a sharper beat against the cobblestones as we neared the city’s oldest brewery. It was here that the famed beer pipeline burrowed beneath the streets, discreetly transporting liquid gold to the bottling plant just outside the old quarter—a marriage of medieval tradition and modern ingenuity.

The morning chill eased as we climbed the 366 steps of the Belfry of Brugge. From the summit, the panorama unraveled in waves—canal threads stitching Brugge, to the North Sea, medieval rooftops blushing in the soft morning light. Below, the Hotel De Orangerie gleamed by the canal’s edge, its stone façade warmed by centuries of sun. Once a 15th-century monastery, the hotel seemed almost too beautiful to be real. Our room, with its carved oak furniture and lace curtains, offered the perfect perch to contemplate the stillness of the water below. Across the canal lay the Church of Our Lady, its alabaster interior guarding Michelangelo’s Madonna and Child. The statue, the only Michelangelo outside Italy, radiated an ethereal life, as if the marble held its own breath. It’s hard to say whether the gleaming white of the church was chosen to complement the statue or whether the sculpture found its perfect home by chance. Standing before it, time softened into something abstract, a reminder that art, at its best, transcends its era.

Descending the tower, we wandered into a narrow lane off the Markt, drawn by the intoxicating spirit of exploration. A family-owned chocolate shop appeared like a jewel box, its window display glinting with confections arranged like diamonds. Inside, the air shimmered with sweetness. Chocolate-covered orange peels, classic Belgian pralines, and the shop’s signature treat—a thin chocolate shaped like a Pringles potato chip—tempted us. The chocolatier described its delicate creation, and we couldn’t resist a tube, or three; one each of milk, dark, and white chocolate. Each bite melted into a silky sweetness, a fleeting moment of indulgence that felt entirely of the place.

“Bruges is a beautiful medieval city almost untouched by time. If you like jazz, you will be well catered for. If you like chocolate and beer, you will be in heaven. – James Frain”

Next to the cathedral is another museum of the medieval life of the rich and ruling class. It is probably my favorite interior in all of Belgium, its gilded rooms a sharp contrast to the stone austerity of the surrounding streets. Wealth, then as now, had its privileges. Today, it might be in-home theaters or private jets, but then, it was the luxury of attending mass from an enclosed pew high above the others—an elegant perch that allowed one to see and be seen without ever venturing into the elements. The museum was a fitting lens through which to view Brugge, a city where history is palpable but never static.

Later that afternoon, Brugge indulged us once more. On the outdoor patio of a canal-side bar, we ordered a flight of Belgian ales. The lineup was a master class in flavor: crisp golden triples that sparkled like morning sunlight, velvety dark stouts with hints of coffee and chocolate, and fruity lambics that tasted like spring. Between sips, we nibbled on slices of aged gouda paired with tangy mustard. The March chill was tempered by patio heaters and we were kept dry by the large umbrellas as we watched the last tour boats float lazily by, their wakes rippling softly against the canal walls. Above the gentle hum of conversation, the city whispered its timeless secrets.

Brugge, like Venice, reveals its mysteries in the quiet hours. Early mornings and late evenings are magical here, when the canals are mirrors reflecting the city’s Gothic spires and gabled rooftops. It’s in these hours, before the tour boats churn the water, that Brugge feels timeless. We strolled along the canals, jackets clasped to keep out the damp, watching locals on bicycles zip past the sleepy streets.

After two days, we ventured to nearby Ghent, the train ride stitching past fields and rivers. We climbed yet another bell tower, this one blessedly equipped with an elevator, and gazed across the city before crossing the square to view the famous Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. Seeing it in person was transcendent—proof of art’s power to bridge centuries. This masterpiece heralded the Renaissance, its gravitas impossible to ignore. We paused for lunch by the river on our way to the castle, where I savored another Carbonnade, a rich Flemish stew of tender beef simmered in beer and onions, paired with crisp frites and a bold dark ale. The warmth of the meal lingered as we returned to Brugge for one last night.

What I love most about travel are the moments that tether the imagined to the real. The first time Big Ben rises before you like a clockwork sentinel, the moment a Bernini sculpture breathes its impossible life into stone, the Eiffel Tower slipping into view as you turn a corner—these are not just sights but awakenings. The Ghent Altarpiece is one of those moments. Standing before it, you don’t just see art; you feel the exact instant when the world pulled itself out of the dark ages and into the light. It’s there, in every brushstroke—the birth of the Renaissance, the dawning realization of art’s power to ignite and transform.

The next morning, as I wrote at a desk as old as the hotel itself, I reflected on Brugge's greatest gift: its rhythm. A slower, quieter pace where every detail—from a horse’s steady gait to the snap of thin chocolate—felt imbued with significance. It wasn’t just a city; it was a whisper, a secret held out to those willing to linger.

Arriving back in New York, the memory of the hearty Carbonnade remained, its warmth a perfect reflection of Belgium's rich culinary tradition. Inspired by that meal, I couldn’t resist recreating the recipe upon returning home. I hope you enjoy.

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Beef Carbonnade

Ingredients:

• 3 lbs chuck roast or stewing beef, cut into 1-inch pieces

• Salt, to taste

• Freshly ground black pepper, to taste

• 4 tbs butter, divided

• 3 medium yellow onions, sliced 1/4 inch thick

• 3 tbs all-purpose flour

• 1 cup beef broth

• 1 1/2 cups Belgian beer

• 4 sprigs fresh thyme

• 2 bay leaves

• 1 tbs mustard

• 1 tbs brown sugar

• 2 tsp red wine vinegar

Instructions:

1. Season the beef pieces with salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste.

2. In a large Dutch oven or heavy-bottomed pot, heat 2 tablespoons of butter over medium-high heat. Add the beef in batches, being careful not to overcrowd the pot, and brown on all sides. Transfer the browned beef to a plate and set aside.

3. Reduce the heat to medium and add the remaining 2 tablespoons of butter to the pot. Add the sliced onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until they are soft and caramelized, about 15-20 minutes.

4. Sprinkle the flour over the onions and cook, stirring, for 1-2 minutes, until the flour is well incorporated and lightly browned.

5. Gradually pour in the beef broth and Belgian beer, stirring to combine and scraping any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Bring the mixture to a simmer.

6. Add the browned beef back to the pot along with the fresh thyme sprigs, bay leaves, mustard, brown sugar, and vinegar. Stir well to combine all ingredients.

7. Bring the mixture back to a simmer, then lower the heat to maintain a gentle simmer. Cover the pot with a lid, leaving it slightly ajar to allow some steam to escape.

8. Cook for 2 to 2.5 hours, or until the beef is tender and the sauce has thickened. Stir occasionally during cooking to ensure even cooking and to prevent sticking.

9. Once the beef is tender, remove the thyme sprigs and bay leaves. Taste the sauce and adjust the seasoning with salt and freshly ground black pepper as needed.

10. Serve the beef carbonnade hot, accompanied by mashed potatoes, egg noodles, or crusty bread to soak up the sauce.

A title is more than a name—it’s an invitation, like stepping onto a pier at dawn or into a kitchen with a stove hard at work. With that in mind, I’m thrilled to introduce the new title of this space: Of Tides & Thyme.

The choice feels inevitable, like waves embracing a weathered shoreline. Tides speaks to the rhythm of change—the eternal cycle of rise and retreat, the shaping of shores and souls, the promise of distant horizons and places still unexplored. Thyme, with its earthy, unassuming fragrance, brings us home: stripping the leaves off of the stalk; a braise gently simmering in the oven, perfuming the house; the comfort of what is shared and savored. Together, these words form a tapestry—a meditation on motion and stillness, the dance of life’s fleeting moments and its enduring gifts.

This new title beckons us to chart life’s coastline, to wander its windswept edges and discover new meanings in familiar tides. Whether our journeys are physical—toward unseen capes—or inward, seeking truth in silence, we are reminded to embrace each moment for its singular essence: fleeting as a sea breeze, fragrant as thyme warmed by the sun, and alive with quiet possibility.

Raise your glass with me—to tides, to thyme, and to the stories we craft at their meeting. Let Of Tides & Thyme shine as a lighthouse towards the next chapter of discovery, with curiosity in our sails, meals spiced with adventure, and gratitude in our hearts.

Here’s to new beginnings and to what's past the known horizon.

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We sat on the rocks, in the shadow of the bridge outside of Bonnieux, where the stream carved quiet pathways through the ash-colored stones. The hum of unseen frogs rose and fell, their calls as steady as the mistral. The afternoon sun poured golden light across the landscape, softening the edges of the world and casting Provence in its timeless glow. This was Provence, where every turn of the road reveals a place so perfect it defies comparison. In that moment, Pont Julien was not merely a bridge — it was an ancient and knowing threshold that had held the weight of Roman feet and now cradled the slow rhythm of our evening.

The bridge stood stoic above us, a monument to a time when utility and grace were one. Until recently, cars rumbled across its arches with no thought to the centuries they traversed. But we hadn’t come here to marvel at the engineering or trace the outlines of its history; we came for the silence, for the way the late-day light filtered through the curves of stone, turning the world to honey. The Luberon had gifted us a day of wandering—black olive tapenade from Gordes, rust-colored dust clinging to our shoes in Roussillon, and a bottle of rosé chilled just enough to temper the heat of the sun. Now, the spoils of our adventure lay before us: fresh bread, cheese, olives, and grape tomatoes glinting like small treasures. Meals like this never need ceremony. They need only the right place and the right person to transform them into something unforgettable.

The light shifted, as it does in Provence, fading from the bright yellow of sunflower fields to the dusky amber of a Ricard poured just so. The banks revealed their quiet story, framed by grass and the remnants of spring’s retreating waters. Tall, soft, grass, the blades bent over by the weight of young, small snails their shells like tiny spirals of time unwinding, provided seclusion. The cicadas sang their relentless chorus, a sound so constant it felt more like a force of nature than a collection of insects. And the tannic water carved its way though the sand colored rocks, creating small pools which provided refuge for the small but boisterous frogs.

My wife leaned against me, and we spoke in low tones about the day, about the year, about the strange pull that this place had on us—as if Provence itself had drawn us here to remind us of something we’d forgotten. We had come on the occasion of a major birthday and I had earlier mentioned that in Marseille, I might want to get a tattoo. A single, small tattoo on my left shoulder of the simple symbol that we used to signify our love. To both mark the occasion and celebrate our relationship.

In my family, tattoos were taboo, as were long hair, bold fashion, or anything else that might draw attention. Conformity was the unspoken rule, and my father was its steadfast enforcer, the arbiter of what was acceptable and what was not. Even now, 25 years after his death, the anger lingered—a quiet ember refusing to extinguish. As we sipped our rosé, the landscape stretching before us, my wife broke the silence. “Do you still want the tattoo?” she asked, her voice as soft as the breeze threading through the trees.

I paused, looking out at the bridge. “I don’t think so,” I said. “It wasn’t about me—it was about proving something to someone who isn’t even here anymore.”

Her smile was soft, like the light that fell across the bridge. “I’m glad. And I’m happy that you finally came to that realization,” she said. And in that moment, it struck me that we carry so much of what we think we’ve left behind. Provence has a way of peeling back the layers, of showing you not just the beauty of the world but the fault lines within yourself. We are all bridges, spanning what we were and what we long to be.

There is a law of food that says eating something where it is made will never taste the same elsewhere. And when shared with someone who knows the depth of your silences, it becomes something eternal. I thought of this as I spread the tapenade across a piece of baguette. That bread, that cheese, that wine would never taste as good again. But perfection is not the point. It is the memory, the lingering essence of it, that persists—etched into the soul like Pont Julien’s stones, weathered but never erased.

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Black Olive Tapenade

INGREDIENTS

• 1 cup of fresh ripe (black) olives, pitted. Do not use canned olives, but if you must, use Kalamata olives.

• 2 garlic cloves

• 2 anchovy fillets, rinsed of oil and chopped

• 2 tsp capers.

• 1/2 tsp fresh thyme, chopped

• 1 tbsp fresh lemon juice

• 1/4 tsp zest of lemon

• 1/2 cup good quality extra virgin olive oil

• pinch of course salt

• freshly ground black pepper

DIRECTIONS

1. This is best if you use a stone mortar and pestle but can be made in a food processor as well. If making in a food processor, skip the chopping of the olives.

2. Mince garlic and sprinkle with the pinch of course salt. Don’t use much as the capers will add the required saltiness. Using the side of your knife, smash the salt and garlic into a paste.

3. Chop the olives and place in the pestle with the chopped anchovies, capers, thyme, lemon juice, and lemon zest. Using the mortar, crush and stir into a paste consistency. Leave as chunky or smooth as you desire.

4. If using a food processor, place olives, anchovies, capers, thyme, lemon juice, and lemon zest in the bowl and process until desired consistency. 

5. Transfer olive mixture to a small bowl and stir in olive oil.

6. Salt and pepper if desired.

Peter McManus Café welcomes you like an old friend. Crossing its threshold feels like stepping into a time machine; the whispers of the 1930s seem to hover in the air, carried on the scent of whiskey and worn wood. The back of the bar, festooned with evergreen swags and bright red bows, glows softly in the light of the season. Holiday songs tumble from the jukebox—crooning wishes for peace on earth and goodwill to all. It’s a place where the past and present sit comfortably together, sharing a drink and a quiet understanding that, for now, everything feels just as it should. I take one last sip and head out into the chill.

Evergreen wreaths with red satin ribbons tied in festive bows adorn the heavy doors of the brownstones along the street, the sweet smell of wood smoke lightly perfuming the evening air. It is a scent both nostalgic and unsettling—a reminder of simpler times and the precarious proximity of fire in a city so tightly packed. LED candles, pale imitations of their waxen ancestors, cast steady halos in the windows above, their light faintly echoing an age when the rhythmic clatter of horseshoes filled the streets below.

Walking toward the river, I pause to admire the stone church anchoring the block. Built in the traditional English manner, its bell and clock tower rises modestly yet assuredly above the quiet surroundings. It’s a marker of time, yes, but also a keeper of memory. When my wife and I pass by on our walks, and the clock is illuminated against the darkening sky, we’ve taken to reciting Frost’s words from the poem Aquainted with the Night: “One luminary clock against the sky proclaimed, the time is neither wrong nor right.” The lines, like the clock itself, feel timeless—grounding us in shared reflection, even as the city moves relentlessly forward.

To my back is a townhouse that, unknown to most, has a deep connection to the breakfast tables of America. The ovens that created those first toasted hills and valleys—the nooks and crannies that cradle melted butter in tiny, jam-covered lakes—were uncovered in the back garden during renovations. Each bite of this toasted, crunchy goodness offers a delightful explosion of flavor. Thomas’s English muffins were baked on this block before production moved to larger factories to meet growing demand. I like to imagine what the morning must have smelled like—the scent of yeasty rolls drifting across the neighborhood. Today, a modest yet poignant plaque on the front of the brownstone quietly announces this cultural icon to those who pass.

From the historic scent of toasted perfection to the present-day aroma of freshly baked croissants and coffee, Chelsea’s culinary journey is ever unfolding. Crossing 9th Avenue, I come to my morning sanctuary, La Bergamote. Now warm and inviting in preparation for dinner service, the café transforms in the early hours—bright and bustling as locals grab coffee and pastries to go. They offer one of the best croissants in the city: golden, buttery, impossibly flaky. One bite always takes me back to Paris—mornings near Les Invalides, the city awakening around me. Here in Chelsea, I claim a table with my coffee, watching neighborhood dogs parade by on their walks. My pen moves haltingly across the page, sketching thoughts in blue ink—each line an attempt to catch the moment before it slips away.

Chelsea at Christmas feels like a portal—not just to the time when Clement Clarke Moore penned his holiday ode, but to something quieter, softer: a warmth that defies the December chill. Here, fireplaces whisper of quiet wealth, of homes built in an age when the hearth was a necessity but now is only a luxury. Within sight of the High Line, where the ghostly whispers of freight trains still linger, Cushman’s Row—the historic row houses that were built shortly after Moore’s verses were published—remains. Their rooftops, perfectly aligned, seem tailor-made for St. Nick’s seamless journey. Chimneys rise like sentinels, offering secret passageways unseen from the snow-dusted streets below.

This is the block where the poem was written, where later Jack Kerouac would live, and where now I try to distill into words the magic of this shared existence. Once part of a sprawling farm, it was here that the Chelsea Grid took shape—plots carved into the iconic rectangle, three short blocks running north and south, linked by one long block stretching east to west. This design imposed order, a deliberate geometry that replaced the meandering charm of the Village with the disciplined gridlines that define New York today. Walking along the stone wall, overhung with rose bushes during the warmer months, the black wrought-iron fence provides glimpses of the grounds and whispers of their history.

As you turn north on 10th Avenue, the Highline Hotel stands like a quiet sentinel, its warmth spilling onto the corner like light through a frosted windowpane. Out front, there is a courtyard where, in the warmer months, you can sit under the trees and enjoy a coffee or cocktail. Inside, the lobby offers more than warmth from the cold or coffee from the café; it extends a reprieve—a cocoon against the city's chill, where the hum of conversation mingles with the dark, warm ambiance. This sanctuary is a fragment of Clement Clarke Moore's once-vast estate, a sprawling gift to the General Theological Seminary. Yet, piece by piece, this parcel is under threat by the evolution of the neighborhood, a tribute exacted by the weight of rising taxes. What remains is a reminder of a quieter era, its stories nestled within stone walls, like secrets whispered into a winter’s night.

By the time I reach 193 Books just north of 21st Street, the evening has taken on the muted softness of snow. This small, independent shop feels like a tribute to Shakespeare and Company in Paris, though without its rumored beds for wayward writers. Each week, I linger at the window displays, imagining my own book someday resting behind the glass, waiting to catch the eye of a fellow dreamer. And ahead, London Terrace looms, a monolith of brick and memory stretching from 23rd to 24th and across to 9th. Its grandeur suggests a time when buildings were not merely constructed but composed, each detail a note in an architectural symphony. Even now, it holds its charm: a garden hidden within its heart like a secret, waiting to be uncovered. Holiday ornaments punctuate the leaded glass windows, and the building's gargoyle free elevator towers bare silent witnesses to the ever-changing neighborhood.

Crossing 8th Avenue, the Empire State Building peeks out from its diminishing stage, its festive light show and regal silhouette slowly becoming eclipsed by the slender towers that rise like opportunistic understudies. Time, it seems, spares no leading lady, and as December's winter evenings wrap the city in their quiet chill, nostalgia walks beside me. The soft strains of I'll Be Home for Christmas and Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas drift through my thoughts like footsteps on a sidewalk covered with fresh snow—delicate and fleeting, yet leaving a profound trace.

Mid-block, I pause at one of Chelsea’s treasures, the Hotel Chelsea, whose lobby echoes the presence of its illustrious residents: Arthur C. Clarke, Leonard Cohen, Arthur Miller, Bob Dylan, and Thomas Wolfe, to name but a few. Vespers of their time here pass through the front door into the lobby kept mostly unchanged during the recent renovations. The restaurant El Quijote, adorned in green and red, exudes the kind of festive charm that feels both timeless and wholly specific to the season. Next door, Café Chelsea bustles with holiday revelers, their laughter spilling into the street as they raise glasses to the year’s triumphs and trials, their voices mingling with the city’s enduring hum—a hopeful toast to the year that lies ahead.

This is Chelsea at Christmas: a space where history whispers from stoic brownstones, where light spills from cafes and bars, and where fireplaces still glow with memory. As I wander home, my thoughts return to that opening clock, Frost’s words, and the steady rhythm of the city—its moments of quiet magic strung together like lights on a holiday garland. And as the city whispers its timeless stories, we are reminded that every clock and street holds a piece of our shared human tapestry.

May you have a wonderful holiday season!

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Rome lingers in my memory like the perfume of basil crushed between fingertips—evocative, grounding, and impossible to forget. Of the cities I love, it floats between first and second, depending on my mood. New York, as my everyday partner, abstains from the competition. Paris is an old friend, elegant and romantic, a bond revived effortlessly whenever we meet but never demanding. London, New York’s cosmopolitan sibling, tempts me with its history and warrens of streets, its energy pulsing with a familiar yet foreign rhythm. But Rome—it’s another thing entirely. Rome is Rome.

Gritty, sensuous, and unashamedly itself, Rome is visceral. It’s the shot of espresso downed at the counter, the ceramic cup in lieu of paper, grounding centuries of tradition. It’s the Ponte Sant’Angelo in the early morning, the statues momentarily ethereal, pure white marble under a perfect cerulean sky. It’s the guttural roar of fans erupting from a thousand windows when AS Roma conquers AC Milan. It’s an aperitivo with your love in Piazza Navona, a prelude to a late-night feast in Trastevere where the season dictates the plate and the night ends with limoncello and grappa before returning to your apartment across from where the Barber of Seville was penned. Rome is the city of passion, unfiltered and inescapable.

And that passion? It spills unapologetically into its food, particularly the sacred quartet of its pasta sauces, alla grecia, amatriciana, carbonara, and cacio e pepe. All have my affection, but amatriciana claims my heart. My introduction to it, though hazy from exhaustion, remains vivid. Working on a project in Lake Como, I’d been awake for 36 hours when I ordered spaghettini puttanesca at a lakeside trattoria. My wife, meanwhile, chose what my sleep-deprived brain interpreted as “bucatini Americana.” When she offered me a bite of her dish, I accepted begrudgingly. What landed on my tongue was revelatory. Sweet, bright tomatoes, onion, the salty elegance of pecorino, and guanciale’s unctuous indulgence. It was joy, wrapped in al dente strands, and I wondered, briefly, if I’d heard angels singing in the distance. When she corrected me—“all’amatriciana, not Americana”—I laughed, already captivated by the culinary symphony.

Later, I dove into the history of Rome’s sauces: the shepherds in the hills outside of Rome crafting the simplicity of alla grecia with guanciale, pecorino, and pepper; cacio e pepe’s minimalist purity arising when meat was scarce; carbonara’s luxurious addition of yolk; and amatriciana’s rich evolution of grecia with the tomato’s arrival. South of Rome, however, these traditions met decadence, creating a fifth: pasta alla zozzona, or “dirty pasta.” A riot of indulgence, it combines all four mother sauces, adds sausage for good measure, and whispers indulgence with every bite. Dirty, perhaps, because it tempts the senses or because its richness borders on sin.

To me, zozzona encapsulates Rome’s essence: unabashed beauty intertwined with grit and vitality. A dish as at home in a marble-laden piazza as on a scuffed table in Trastevere. Like the graffiti that blooms beside ancient fountains, it balances the sacred and the profane, elegance with desire. It’s the city’s culinary gospel—honest, passionate, and unapologetic. It tastes, unapologetically, of Rome.

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Pasta alla Zazonna

INGREDIENTS:

• 5 oz guanciale, cut into 1/4 inch cubes

• 5 oz sweet Italian uncased sausage, cut into 1 pieces 

• 1/2 cup onion, finely chopped

• 3/4 cup passata

• 1/2 cup Pecorino Romana 

• 2 large egg yolks

• 1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper

• 8 oz rigatoni or tube shaped pasta

DIRECTIONS:

1. Boil salted water for pasta. 

2. In a skillet over medium heat add guanciale and sauté about six minutes until the fat is rendered and the guanciale is browned.

3. Add onion and sausage to the pan and break up sausage with the back of a spoon.

4. Cook until the sausage is no longer pink.

5. Add passata to the pan and simmer.

6. Add the pasta to the boiling water and cook until al dente. Drain, reserving 1 cup of the pasta water.

7. Return drained pasta to pot and stir in the sausage mixture until the pasta is well coated.

8. In a bowl whisk the egg yolks with the Pecorino and black pepper.

9. Slowly whisk in 1/4 cup of the saved pasta water to temper the egg mixture.

10. Remove pan from heat and stir in the yolk/cheese mixture. Stir until the sauce is thickened and glossy.

11. Top with more Pecorino and serve.

The souvenirs we carry home when we travel, I believe, evolve as we do. In our youth, we bring back items or tokens that show proof of where we’ve been: a sweatshirt emblazoned with a city's name, the bag that screams PARIS, the hat with the logo others recognize as being from afar. Over time, those tokens shift. They become artifacts of remembrance, objects that, when looked upon, call us back to a specific moment: sipping an aperitif in a sunlit piazza, the warmth on our skin; the hum of unfamiliar voices weaving through the air touched with a strange accent.

Now, my keepsakes are simple—objects meant to be touched, held, and woven into daily life. A wooden spoon, purchased in a common grocery store, carries the essence of a Lapland evening, the sun refusing to set. As I dry the dishes, a kitchen towel, soft and sturdy, from Borough Kitchen in London, whispers of bustling markets and a quiet pint sipped while watching the crowds. A corkscrew, humble yet elegant, recalls a spontaneous stop at a vineyard outside San Francisco at the beginning of a road trip north, where laughter and wine both swirled in the glass on a sunny afternoon.

These unassuming objects may seem ordinary to others, but to me, they are treasures—subtle, profound, and luminous. Each one is a thread, intricately weaving me back to lands that have shaped me. They hold the quiet power of memory, a testament to the alchemy of movement: how the stretch of a distant horizon softens the edges of the self, making us open and eager to absorb what the world has to offer. They remind me of perspectives widened, faces encountered, and landscapes forever etched into my soul.

I recently received a gift of a kuru made from Pounamu. The kuru, its polished surface cool against my fingers, carries the wisdom of the fern’s spiral: it represents harmony and rebirth, but it is also a map—an unbroken journey outward and back, echoing the rhythm of a heartbeat, the pulse of discovery. The outward path of the curl takes one away from the center, it returns then to its starting point. It reminds me that travel’s greatest gift is not the places we touch but the truths we bring home—seeds of rebirth, planted to grow in the soil of our everyday lives.

For what is travel, if not the art of being undone? Each trinket is a whisper of lands that taught me to see things from a fresh viewpoint, each return a homecoming to a self forever altered. Those trinkets become my reference materials, my scholarly library of memories. To travel is to surrender to change—to gather the world in small, unassuming pieces, and find, in their quiet utility, a map of who we have become, because it is impossible to travel and remain unchanged.

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Thanksgiving, for those of us who cook, is the great canvas. It is neither gaudy nor loud, unburdened by the commercial chaos of December or the frenetic pace of summer gatherings. Thanksgiving is soft-spoken and calm. It sidles up to you, as steam curls from a gently simmering pot, and asks not only what you cook but why. It is the most culinary of holidays—and my favorite.

There are no gifts, no obligations save for the vague social contract that we shall share a meal and give thanks for it. Everything else—the watching of the parade, the dog show, the folding of napkins into swans—is optional. The vibe is cozy and warm. It's a day for couches and thick sweaters. I have celebrated it with a large family, where laughter rose like yeast rolls; with just my wife when our schedules didn't allow for travel; and solo while serving in the military, finding a lonely restaurant in a local Holiday Inn. It remains, in all forms, a holiday of sufficiency. You are here. You are surviving. And as little as you might have, you are thankful. You need only gratitude, and you are full.

For me, gratitude is often tied to the kitchen. It is in the warmth of an oven, the sound of chopping herbs, and the sizzle of onions softening in butter that I feel closest to those I love. The kitchen is where I show my care, where family traditions live on in the recipes I tweak and the lessons my father taught me. An ancestor of mine sat at that first, over-mythologized feast in Massachusetts. The foods on that table were, for the most part, vastly different from today's spread—save for regional homages that incorporate some of the original ingredients: oyster stuffing, squash, grains, and berries, to name a few. Unfortunately, there would be no green bean casserole for a couple of centuries.

Years ago, before the Food Network flooded our homes with cooking competitions and holiday baking shows twenty-four-seven, inspiration for me came quietly, in the pages of Bon Appétit, Gourmet, Saveur, and Food & Wine. One autumn, Bon Appétit featured a spread of four roast turkey recipes that set the bar for what a modern roast turkey could be. My thought was to eventually try all four. There was an ancho chili-rubbed turkey that piqued my interest, but one caught my attention in a way that felt almost fateful: an apricot and ginger-glazed turkey with roasted onion and shallot gravy.

Traditions often begin without us realizing it. A single choice—a recipe, a flavor, a moment of shared satisfaction—plants itself firmly in memory. The recipe was a revelation. The glaze is a sunbeam distilled: bright apricot nectar infused with honeyed ginger, tempered by the savory green shadows of thyme and sage. The onions and shallots, roasted until caramelized and jammy, are transformed into a velvety gravy, rich and earthy. It is a dish that speaks in whispers but lingers long after the plates are cleared.

Over time, the recipe has proven adaptable to the irregularities of life and is just about foolproof. Apricot nectar, for reasons beyond my comprehension, occasionally vanishes from store shelves, but I have found that mango or peach nectar substitutes well enough. And the gravy—that golden purée of roasted onions, shallots, and turkey drippings—is one of those things that elevates anything it touches. It has been rumored, but never proven, that I have used it as a cold spread on the next-day turkey sandwich.

This recipe, like the holiday, is forgiving and unpretentious. It is not about perfection but about care, intention, and the joy of creating something to share. Each time I make it, the scent of apricot and sage filling the kitchen, I am reminded that Thanksgiving is as much about the act of making as it is about the act of gathering.

And to you, reader, I offer this recipe—not merely as a list of ingredients, but as an invitation. Let the scent of apricot, turkey, and sage fill your kitchen the way gratitude fills the spaces between people gathered at a table. Whether your Thanksgiving is shared with many or few, whether it is loud with laughter or quiet with reflection, this dish carries with it the spirit of the holiday: a soft-spoken reminder that what we have, and who we share it with, is sometimes enough.

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Apricot-Glazed Turkey with Roasted Onion and Shallot Gravy

Originally published in Bon Appetit, many, many, years ago.

Ingredients

Apricot Glaze

1 cup apricot nectar
1 cup apricot preserves
2 tablespoons minced peeled fresh ginger
1 tablespoon honey

Herb Butter

3/4 cup (1 1/2 sticks) unsalted butter, room temperature
3 tablespoons chopped fresh thyme or 1 tablespoon dried
3 tablespoons chopped fresh sage or 1 tablespoon dried rubbed sage
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1 teaspoon ground black pepper

Onion Mixture

2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter
3 large onions (about 2 pounds), thinly sliced
6 ounces shallots (about 6 large), thinly sliced

Turkey

1 21- to 22-pound turkey
1 14 1/2-ounce can (or more) low-salt chicken broth
1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme or 1/2 teaspoon dried
1/2 teaspoon chopped fresh sage or 1/4 teaspoon dried

Gravy

1 14 1/2-ounce can (about) low-salt chicken broth
Drippings from turkey, fat skimmed.

Directions

For Glaze:

1. Combine all ingredients in heavy small saucepan and bring to boil.

2. Reduce heat to medium-low and simmer until thickened and reduced to 1 1/4 cups, about 15 minutes.

For Herb Butter:

1. Combine all ingredients in small bowl. Set aside.

For Onion Mixture:

1. Melt butter in heavy large skillet over medium heat.

2. Add onions and shallots and sauté until very soft and light brown, about 20 minutes.
   Note: (Glaze, herb butter and onion mixture can be prepared 1 day ahead. Cover separately and chill. Bring herb butter to room temperature before continuing.)

For Turkey:

1. Position rack in lowest third of oven and preheat to 400° F.

2. Pat turkey dry with paper towels.

3. Season turkey cavity with salt and pepper.

4. Place turkey on rack set in large roasting pan.

5. Slide hand or wooden spoon under skin of turkey breast to loosen skin.

6. Spread half of herb butter over breast under skin. If stuffing turkey, spoon stuffing into main cavity.

7. Place remaining herb butter in small saucepan. Stir over low heat until melted.

8. Brush butter over outside of turkey.

9. Tie legs together loosely to hold shape of turkey.

10. Roast turkey 30 minutes.

11. Reduce oven temperature to 325° F.

12. Roast turkey 1 hour 30 minutes, basting occasionally with pan drippings.

13. Tent turkey with heavy-duty foil; roast 45 minutes longer.

14. Add onion mixture, 1 can broth, thyme and sage to pan. Roast 15 minutes.

15. Bring glaze to simmer.

16. Brush 1/2 cup glaze over turkey.

17. Continue to roast turkey uncovered until meat thermometer inserted into thickest part of thigh registers 180° F. or until juices run clear when thickest part of thigh is pierced with skewer.

18. Brush occasionally with glaze and add more broth to pan if liquid evaporates, roasting about 40 minutes longer for unstuffed turkey (about 1 hour 10 minutes longer for stuffed turkey).

19. Place turkey on platter, tent with foil. Let stand 30 minutes.

20. Reserve mixture in pan for gravy.

For Gravy:

1. Pour contents of roasting pan into strainer set over large bowl. Spoon fat from pan juices in bowl.

2. Transfer onion mixture in strainer to blender. Add 1 cup pan juices to blender and puree until smooth, adding more pan juices and chicken broth if necessary to thin sauce to desired consistency.

3. Transfer sauce to heavy large saucepan and bring to boil. Cook until color deepens, skimming off any foam, about 5-10 minutes.

4. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

The water engulfed our steps and swirled around our ankles as we entered at the same time. The gravel bottom, softened by mid-November’s decomposing leaves, gave way to the larger rocks, and the occasional gust of wind heralded the approach of winter. The air was warm and dry — too dry. And the water level was low from drought. We took a few looks at the water and decided on our separate paths, one upstream, one down, both working towards the deep runs where the trout were bunkering, even if there were no signs of their presence.

I was eager to try some new techniques that I had picked up in New Zealand, so after trying a streamer in the shadows, I reeled in my line to swap for a bead-head nymph paired with a dry-fly indicator. Pausing to time the wind gusts, I let out the line and repeated to myself to slow down. Being on the water does that naturally, the rhythmic coolness pushing against your legs, but for me time stops on the river and I rush my backcast. Back, pause, release. My nymph sliced through the wind and landed at the head of the run. I watched as the mended line drifted with the current, imagining the scene below the dark grey surface. In my mind, every trout became interested in my presentation. In reality, nothing. That pattern would repeat throughout the day.

Some days, the trout don’t wish to engage—but those can be the best days on the river. Standing thigh deep in water when the action is slow, watching a good friend's line make poetic arcs above the water, noticing the way the crisp autumn light warms the valley, laughing as you are buzzed by a slightly aggressive male duck curious about the two legged mammals who have invaded his feeding area, these are the moments that anchor themselves in memory, waiting to be revisited during snowed-in winter months, when the rivers are out of reach.

A morning spent on the water, a simple lunch of sausage, cheese, and cornichons while sitting on the tailgate looking at the trees, meeting fellow travelers in the afternoon — these are the days you take with you into winter. These are the moments that fuel your imagination in anticipation of the next season. These are the moments that remind you why you love the sport.

— Tight Lines

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Just below the walk, under Apollo’s Gate, there is a small beach at the edge of the protected cove. You walk down steps into the Mediterranean and float on your back looking up at the ancient ruin. It is calm and serene until the Blue Star Ferry arrives, the captain swinging the ship 180 degrees, sliding gracefully to just the edge of the dock, a few moments later the waves created flood the walk with a mini-tsunami, drenching items not placed at an appropriate altitude. It’s not the fanciest beach in the Cyclades, but to swim at the foot of the hill while you gaze back at the gate is one of those memories that you bottle to keep forever.

The Gate

The sea
the sky
the gate
keep watch over
the harbor.
Octopus hang over lines
to dry and tenderize
as raki is poured
into small cups
and downed
in single gulps. 
Fried cheese 
with lemon and anise 
is served
hot in a spitting skillet
while you look back
at the hill
the gate seeing all.

Of Tides & Thyme is open to all, its stories small lanterns lighting the dark. If this one warmed your heart, help keep the flame alive. A single click on the button below is all it takes—no account needed. No recurring subscriptions.

Support Of Tides & Thyme