Cesky Krumlov doesn’t sound like the name of a picturesque old town, but excepting the title, it’s adorable. A preserved UNESCO World Heritage Site, it’s similar to Bruges in its bite-sized quaintness.
All the guides say that it’s less crowded in the evening, after the day trippers leave (very true), so I made a night of it last weekend, taking a RegioJet bus down from Prague on Sunday afternoon and returning Monday evening. The ride is a bit long for a day, at three hours, but the bus was surprisingly comfortable for 7 euros each way, with leather seats, drinks for purchase, and an on-board restroom.
The bus stop is set just outside of the city center, and to walk into town, you climb up a short, forested hill. At the top is the first view of Cesky Krumlov, and from that initial moment, the city did not disappoint.
The town is similar to Prague, with its red-tiled roofs, a castle at the focus of every vista, and the Vltava River winding through. But I find it sweeter in miniature, and I love the vibrant colors of the castle and church spires.
I got to town around 6 pm, with just enough time to check into the hotel and walk around a bit before dinner at Papa’s Living Restaurant, where I had a table by the river and finally got the sizzling beef tagliata I’ve been trying and failing to order for the last six weeks. (Groups! One of the joys of solo travel for me is getting exactly what I want–there’s no one with whom you have to negotiate or compromise.) It was as good as I’d imagined.
I spent the evening at the theatre–the revolving theatre, to be precise. It’s a bit hard to describe, but let me try. The theatre is open air, in the gardens of the castle. It’s a large disc, essentially (see photo below), so the audience is seated all on one side. The entire contraption, the theatre in which the audience sits, can rotate 360 degrees. There’s no stage per se, though there are a few sets built in various spots on the ground surrounding the seats, as well as one permanent structure that serves for some of the interior scenes. So we’d face one way, watch a scene, and then the theatre would rotate to a different point of view for the next scene. And occasionally the seats would rotate to track action; they drove a real-life horse and carriage in at one point, and the theatre moved along with the horses.
It was fascinating enough to keep me occupied through The Hound of the Baskervilles in Czech! The only words I understood were hello, thank you, and Sherlock Holmes. But while I wish they would have been staging opera or ballet, something more universal, I’d go see just about anything there to experience the lovely outdoor setting and unique staging.
By the time I trekked back down the hill–the walk up to the theater is not for the infirm–it was past 11 pm, and it seemed the only people walking through town were the ones who had also gone to the theater–all in pairs, mind you. (It seems only fair in counterbalance to the above raving about solo travel that I do get a slight twinge when everyone else in arm-in-arm, and I’m the only one trudging forward alone.)
I stayed at the Hotel Ruze, originally a 16th-century monastery. Its origins still show; the hallway sitting area was decorated with a rather intense religious theme, the room featured dark wood and heavy drapery, and the toilet was a literal throne. Pictured at right so you believe me.
The next morning threatened rain, so I had breakfast crepes at MLS and then strolled through the Egon Schiele Art Centrum. The art won’t astound you, but they had a couple interesting exhibits by lesser-known artists, and the space itself was a beautiful mix of old and new architecture. The skies had cleared by the time I was done, and I crossed the river to the less populated side of town (the tour groups are out in full force during the day) and spent a quiet hour in a park.
I was planning to sit in this pretty gazebo I could see from my hotel window, but when I got there, I discovered it was a little grungy, with graffiti, cigarettes, booze bottles, and unidentified puddles…I opted for a bench under a tree instead. It amused me, though, as a lesson in the ideal versus the real while traveling. Even charming villages have their dingy corners.
If I’d had a little more time and/or slightly better weather, I would have gone for the full castle tour–there’s a baroque theater and real live bears!–or rented a kayak to go down the river, as I saw many doing. But it was a welcome break from Prague and a delightful 24 hours.
Last Wednesday morning, I got up so early that I’m sure some people were still out for the night to catch a flight to San Sebastian, also known as Donostia in the Basque language. After a couple weeks of traveling in a crowd, I was ready for a little alone time, and I was really excited to see San Sebastian, a town I’ve been longing to visit for years. (I think it started with The Sun Also Rises…)
The main attraction is food–San Sebastian is second only to Kyoto in the number of Michelin-starred restaurants per square kilometer, and I had reservations at two of them, Arzak and Mugaritz, both of which also feature on the World’s 50 Best list. The early flight, in fact, was made in the service of lunch at Arzak–I couldn’t get a dinner reservation, but it’s the same menu. And beyond the super fancy, San Sebastian is also famous for its pinxto bars: tiny restaurants that serve delectable small plates, which you eat standing up.
Beyond food, there’s not a lot going on. It’s a small town with three great beaches–even a surf break at one of them. The photo below sums up San Sebastian’s beach life; the dogs run free in that town. Unfortunately, three out of four days I was there were cold and rainy, so I spent a lot of time catching up on Netflix. There’s a museum, an aquarium, and loads of cute shops, but since I’m living out of a suitcase for a year, I took the time to recharge.
On Saturday, the sun finally came out, and I attempted to cram a long weekend’s worth of tourism into a day. First up, a trip to the Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim in Bilbao, which is an easy hour and fifteen minute bus ride from San Sebastian, a drive that winds through beautiful mountainous countryside.
The Guggenheim, like so many things, was smaller than I’d imagined, but lovely. The building itself is fascinating; every angle gives you a fresh perspective:
The main exhibition was Abstract Expressionism, and they had some interesting and significant works, though I have to admit that period leaves me a little cold. I was listening to the audio guide as I browsed, and while I’m fascinated by the artists’ processes, and I can intellectually understand the idea of creating a reaction through color or shape, rather than specific forms, it just doesn’t do much for me, much in the same way that I don’t like house music–my book-obsessed brain longs for narrative.
But I always look for at least one new painting to fall in love with, and at this museum, that was Anselm Kiefer’s The Renowned Orders of the Night. The photo doesn’t do it justice; it’s breathtaking in its scale.
Back in San Sebastian, I braved the hordes of children heading up to the rides at the tiny, rickety amusement park at the top of Monte Igueldo to get this breathtaking view of the city.
It was interesting–I don’t know if it’s because it was Saturday, or it was finally sunny, or the combo of the two, but I’d been thinking that San Sebastian was the sleepiest little town, just some surfers and a lot of old people, all of whom seemed to know each other, and hundreds of adorable pups. But then the sun comes out, and all of a sudden, the beach walkway is packed, and I’m fighting my way through the streets of Old Town like it’s Times Square.
I went to a pinxto bar recommended by none other than Anthony Bourdain, La Cuchara de San Telmo. Really, you’re supposed to do a pinxto crawl, but I only had it in me to elbow my way through one insanely crowded bar. It really is a bit of a fight, and then you’re left standing up eating gourmet food as if it were a bad canape at a reception. But I had delicious veal cheeks and pig’s feet in romesco sauce and suckling pig with an apple sauce (all the food my mom would refuse to eat, basically) and called it a night.
It was a slightly disappointing weekend, if I’m being honest, just because I’d built the city up so much in my mind–the difference between travel expectations and reality is something I think about often. And it was definitely one of those times, where if I hadn’t been flying solo, I might have been pushed to do more and explore further. But sometimes travel can be about recovery as much as discovery.
The only truly sour note of the weekend came as I was trying to leave at 7 AM on a Sunday morning. There were no taxis at the stand (you can’t hail one), and the promised 7:15 bus didn’t arrive. The taxi companies weren’t answering their phones. One group of people, just going home from the bars, promised to call me a cab from another town, but then they took the first one, and their drunk friends surrounded me and shooed me down the street, mocking me from the windows of the taxi that was supposed to be mine as they drove by.
Back at the taxi stand, another group of men came by and started talking to the girl standing next to me. In Spanglish, they offered me first a ride, then the open containers of beer they were holding–for obvious reasons, I accepted neither. I finally got through to a company and mustered enough college Spanish to communicate, “Necesito un taxi. Voy a aeropuerto. Estoy a Idiakez.” Not the most elegant turns of phrase, but a taxi did appear–which the other girl tried to take, since she was next in line. We communicated, insofar as we were able, and agreed that the taxi would drop her home first and then take me. Luckily (who has ever thought this?), my flight was delayed an hour, or I probably would have missed it.
So I suppose all’s well that ends well, and I never felt like I was in real danger–but it was a slightly dicey moment for a solo female traveler with only a moderate grasp on the language.
Nevertheless, I’m happy I saw the town and ate (some of) the food. It’s changed a lot from the quiet fishing village Hemingway visited, but it still has a certain charm.
On my recent trip to Anguilla, multiple well-meaning staff members, upon learning that I was traveling solo, asked incredulously, “Aren’t you bored?”
I stared at them, baffled. Yes, yes I’m terribly bored, lounging here on this pristine beach with a wave-side view of the turquoise water.
But okay, I’ll entertain the question. In fairness, a week in Anguilla is an aggressive choice for a solo vacation. When I first traveled alone, I started small: a weekend in a city. Plenty to do and a limited amount of time. On a quiet island for a week, though, you have to be able to self-entertain. Here are the three biggest reasons why that’s not a problem for me:
1. I think.
This isn’t as facetious as it sounds, I promise. Solo trips give me the time and space I need to reflect on my life and re-center. On this trip, I thought about how busy January had been and confronted the reality that I needed to scale back my activities. I evaluated my priorities and set new goals for the coming months.
It’s hard to take a time out to think about the big picture when you’re in the midst of the day-to-day. And when you travel with a group, or even just one other person, there’s far more activity–which is fun and has its own value, but it can be distracting if what you need is to consider your life and your choices.
2. I observe.
Sometimes my observation looks like a photo in a brochure for something: a young woman sits in the sand, contemplating the ocean… And truthfully, I did spend nearly forty-five minutes one day watching a crab industriously dig a tunnel. (I live in New York; animals that aren’t pigeons, squirrels, or rats are fascinating.) I also feel like I get a better sense for the place I’m visiting when I’m alone–I pay more attention to the scenery and the locals when I’m not having a conversation with a companion.
But also, let’s be honest, I people watch. And eavesdrop. It’s hilarious. On this trip, in beach chairs nearby, a young couple was talking to an older woman. The woman asked if they were on their honeymoon. *cue awkward laughter* “Uh, no, we’re just on vacation,” the young man said. “But…um…someday…maybe.” Things were uncomfortable between the couple for the rest of the morning, and I enjoyed every minute of it, because schadenfreude, amirite?
3. I read.
This is the game changer. I’m not such a mindfulness master that I can sit silently for a week in full awareness of my surroundings. I love to read, and since I work in publishing, I don’t get nearly enough time for non-work books. My Goodreads goal could not be as ambitious as it is without my solo travel time; I blazed through ten books on the island.
And truly, when I read, I don’t feel like I’m alone. As I read a sociological nonfiction work, I felt like I was in conversation with a large swathe of critical discourse. As I read women’s fiction, I felt like I was hanging out with new friends.
Rory Gilmore put it best: “I live in two worlds. One is a world of books. I’ve been a resident of Faulkner’s Yoknapatawpha County, hunted the white whale aboard the Pequod, fought alongside Napoleon, sailed a raft with Huck and Jim, committed absurdities with Ignatius J. Reilly, rode a sad train with Anna Karenina and strolled down Swann’s Way.” While my reading list for the week was less literary than Rory’s, the characters felt no less real.
So no, I’m not bored. Just mildly irritated that you interrupted me mid-paragraph to ask.
I miss last week already. The grey harshness of New York in February feels especially brutal after a week of hot sun and soft sand. My skin is tan but freezing. I’m stuck at a desk instead of sending the occasional email from the beach.
Saying goodbye to St. Maarten…
On February 5, I took off for the tiny island of Anguilla, a British overseas territory in the Caribbean that’s just 16 miles long by 3 miles wide. There are no direct flights–while Anguilla does have an airport, it’s serviced by tiny planes from San Juan–so I opted instead for a nonstop flight to St. Maarten, followed by a very pleasant 30-minute boat ride. Having been to St. Maarten before and knowing how bad the traffic can get, I opted to pay more for Funtime Charters, which leaves from a dock just a few minutes from the airport, rather than traversing the island to the French side to take the public ferry. The boat ride was actually delightful; with a rum punch and the ocean breeze, it was a lovely way to start the vacation.
Spurred on by a 25% off Expedia discount, which made the hotel a couple hundred bucks a night cheaper than other options on the island (Anguilla is many things, but inexpensive isn’t one of them), I stayed at Zemi Beach House, on Shoal Bay East Beach, in a premium ocean view king room. The view (on left) was gorgeous, and you could lie in the cozy bed and see the ocean. I was very impressed with the hotel overall; the staff was friendly and accommodating–I stayed an extra day, thanks to the NYC snowstorm, and they extended my stay at the same rate. And with only 69 rooms, the two pools (one, an out of the way, adults only tranquility pool; the other overlooking the ocean) and private beach were never crowded. After having been to large, family-oriented resorts in the Bahamas and Bermuda, I can’t tell you what a joy it is not to have to wake up at dawn and fight for beach chairs. Instead, I slept in and strolled out at 10 to take my pick of oceanfront loungers.
I stayed close to the hotel during the days. The one downside to Zemi Beach is that many of the restaurants (and other hotels) are clustered on the opposite side of the island, a $20-35 cab ride away. You can rent a car–many who wish to explore the various beaches do–but given the rural roads (roosters and goats roaming free!) and left-side driving, I decided nighttime taxi excursions were the way to go. And the beach at Zemi suited my lounging and reading needs just fine, although with slightly rough waters, it’s not the best location for swimming and snorkeling. If you do decide to explore, it’s easy–most beachside grills have lounge chairs you can rent for a nominal (about $5) fee. But I was more than content with my wide-open expanse of sand:
I did drag myself off the beach to indulge in the on-site Thai House Spa twice–well worth it, as it won World’s Best New Resort Spa 2016 in the World Spa Awards. On my first full day on the island, before I got too much sun to make massage impossible, I got the deep tissue grapefruit and rosemary muscle melt. Girl was not messing around with that deep tissue; it fully lived up to its name. On my last day, I got a much-needed cucumber and aloe wrap to soothe my sunburned skin. And the spa itself is beautiful, though it feels a bit strange (yet awesome???) to be walking around the open air setting in your robe. Spa treatments come with a complimentary bathing ritual, consisting of time in the hammam, the only one of these Turkish steam rooms on the island, a scrub or mud mask rinsed off in the outdoor rain showers, and a dip in a bathwater-temp pool. An overly friendly male employee made the ritual my only real negative moment of the trip–but it’s a bit of a story; stay tuned next week for more on that.
At night, I ventured out. The day I arrived was Super Bowl Sunday, and I watched the game on a giant screen set up in the sand at Elvis’ Beach Bar, comfortably crowded with tourists and locals alike. Aside from the tranquil beaches, the other big Anguilla draw is the food. Several chefs have decided to expat on island, and there is some seriously haute cuisine happening in tropical, open spaces. My favorite meal of the trip was at the French with Asian influences Hibernia, where I ate smoked fish and ginger cream cheese on toasted bread (like the Caribbean version of a New York bagel) and the most amazing aromatic duck with some cinnamon tea and homemade rum raisin ice cream for dessert, while overlooking this lovely art-surrounded pool.
But I also highly recommend my two other nice dinners. At Blanchards, situated right on the beach, I ate fresh corn chowder and amazingly tender braised lamb shank, followed by their signature cracked coconut, a chocolate “shell” filled with coconut ice cream. And at Veya, a palm-treehouse style restaurant with live music, I had delightfully decadent conch fritters and grilled shrimp with curry sauce–and their amuse bouche, a lobster and lemongrass soup, was the most delicious thing I ate all week.
The hotel food was similarly excellent–one of the highlights for me was the packet of macarons they left every night at turndown, which I saved to have as breakfast in the morning with the complimentary in-room illy coffee. Zemi Beach’s casual restaurant 20 Knots had a tasty lunch menu that was varied enough to keep me happy all week–I recommend the simply skewered option or the mango and zucchini salad–though you can also walk down the beach to a couple of casual grills. Breakfast in the sand was the perfect farewell to the island.
Though I have a hard time returning to places when there’s so much of the world still to explore, I could easily see Anguilla becoming a favorite winter retreat. On one of my cab rides, the driver and I started talking about the radio show he was listening to, on which a local politician was arguing for expanding the airport. While I certainly understand wanting to expand tourism–their main economic resource–the lack of a cruise port and slight inaccessibility keep many travelers away. And that’s what makes this traveler want to keep going back.
off Expedia discount, which made the hotel a couple hundred bucks a night cheaper than other options on the island (Anguilla is many things, but inexpensive isn’t one of them), I stayed at 
At night, I ventured out. The day I arrived was Super Bowl Sunday, and I watched the game on a giant screen set up in the sand at 
macarons they left every night at turndown, which I saved to have as breakfast in the morning with the complimentary in-room illy coffee. Zemi Beach’s casual restaurant 20 Knots had a tasty 
