Makeyourtraveleasy

  Verona spends most of her life in the shadow of a balcony. It is the city of love of many tourists, the city of star-crossed lovers where they breathe love in the air just as it is the air in the soft Verona sun. However, take longer than an afternoon in this city and you soon get to discover that the identity of Verona is much larger than Shakespeare in his tragic drama.   The city is revealed at a slow pace, almost book-like with layers that one is only able to find out when they take their time. Stroll around Piazza delle Erbe early in the morning and the market stalls are starting to get things set up and the smell of fresh fruit mixes with the smell of espresso floating out of the cafes. The chatter of locals is by no means done with a view to amuse tourists but is merely the way Verona breathes the way it lives and the way it speaks: genuine and inhabited. Then there is the Arena, an artwork that is over two millennia old and comes before Shakespeare. Seated on its o...

  Nothing is as basic and good as a spoon load of smooth and tangy yogurt and in Bulgaria it is not merely a food, it is a lifestyle. This happened the very first time I had tried the real Bulgarian yogurt, sitting in a small guesthouse outside Plovdiv. It came served in an earthenware bowl with a drizzle of honey and a few walnuts on top, and the first bite of this dish made me understand why Bulgaria is so proud of it.   The beauty behind the Bulgarian yogurt is not only its flavor which is easily discriminatory between the tart and the smooth but also its origin. The characteristic bacteria Lactobacillus bulgaricus which was found in Bulgaria is also used in traditional yogurt making. It is this small microorganism that makes the Bulgarian yogurt taste and possesses the distinctive thick and velvety texture unlike all other types of yogurt in the world.   But there is tradition, other than science. Production of yogurt in Bulgaria dates back thousands of years,...

  I wasn’t planning to eat anything unusual that night. I’d landed in Bangkok after a long flight, half asleep, hair sticking to my face, and the air thick enough to drink. Street food stalls lined the road outside my guesthouse — sizzling woks, clouds of chilli smoke, and a dozen smells fighting for attention. I just wanted noodles. Somehow, I ended up with something else. The vendor smiled, pointed to a tray, and said, “Try! Very crispy!” It looked like fried noodles at first glance. It wasn’t. It was deep-fried crickets — tiny, shiny, still recognisable. My British politeness betrayed me; I nodded before my brain caught up. Crunch. That first bite was oddly nutty, not awful at all. The t exture was strange — like popcorn that gave up halfway. Locals snacked on them casually, beer in hand, laughing at the tourists hesitating with chopsticks. One of them offered me a sprinkle of chilli salt and said, “Better with spice.” He was right. Since then, I’ve eaten stranger things....