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Editor’s Note: Monthly Ticket is a CNN Travel series that spotlights some of the most fascinating topics in the travel world. In October, we shift our focus to the offbeat, highlighting everything from (allegedly) haunted spaces to abandoned places.

Hong Kong
CNN
 — 

A fraction of a second after William Sargent’s torch light catches the unmistakable glint of snake skin he roars into action, sliding on a protective glove and launching himself into the dense green jungle of northern Hong Kong.

The 46-year-old re-emerges on the paved trail moments later with a many-banded krait, also known as Bungarus multicinctus, a species covered in zebra-like black and white stripes that is one of most venomous snakes in the world.

“This one is a real beauty, it’s stunning,” says Sargent, sweat gathering on his brow as he strains to keep the lively reptile from slithering out of his grasp. “If there was an elite model for snakes, this would be right up there. But this is the one you really don’t want to get bitten by. If not treated, you could have respiratory failure and die.”

Since 2017, Sargent, a police-approved snake expert, has been running nocturnal so-called “Snake Safaris” through the verdant, biodiverse terrains of Hong Kong such as Tai Mo Shan Country Park – home to the city’s highest peak in the northern New Territories region – taking hundreds of daring visitors along every year.

The Brit moved to the city at the age of two, honing a passion for herpetology – the study of amphibians and reptiles – while exploring Hong Kong’s lush subtropical landscapes as a teen. Besides fulfilling his own interest, the guided tours are a way for Sargent to combat stigma, improve awareness and build appreciation of snakes.

“The vast majority of snakes that show up in your house don’t want to live there. It’s just by circumstance, like a fish jumping in your boat,” he says. “If you’re sensible, there’s nothing to be afraid of. But sadly, many snakes are killed because of fear.”

While Hong Kong is a global metropolis nearly as large as Los Angeles, containing some of the most densely populated districts in the world, about 40% of its landmass is protected country parks, meaning its 7.3 million residents often come into contact with wildlife, including more than 50 snake species in the city – from the potentially deadly King Cobra to the Burmese Python, which can grow to over 26 feet.

“Given its size, Hong Kong has a disproportionately high number of snakes,” says Dr. Sung Yik-hei, a professor at Lingnan University and one of the city’s foremost reptile experts. “That’s because of the city’s great variety of habitats: mountains, coastal areas, lowlands, wetlands, and freshwater streams.”

Despite these reptilian riches, there are little more than 100 snake bites in Hong Kong each year – the equivalent odds of about one in 50,000 – and the last death was of a shopkeeper defanging a non-native snake for which there was no antivenom in 1988.

“The likelihood of encountering a snake is not low,” adds Sung. “But the chance of getting bitten is very low. Even if you are, Hong Kong is one of the safest places in the world for snakebites because of the quality and proximity of hospitals.”

For his part, Sargent receives callouts every week to capture snakes everywhere from schools to prisons to homes, and once, a beach on Lantau Island to ensnare a 15-foot python. As of August, he’s the first expert to participate in a “Rapid Release Program” – meaning that rather than have to go through a days-long, bureaucratic procedure of sending a captured snake to a police station and further facilities, he can release it in the nearest country park, reducing workload and keeping the snakes far healthier.

That policy change has proven an uphill struggle amid a complex cultural context.

In Hong Kong, snakes are eaten in a soup, used in traditional Chinese medicine, or are otherwise simply viewed as a menace. The result is that across China nearly all of the larger snake species are classified as vulnerable, threatened or endangered on the International Union for Conservation of Nature’s (IUCN) Red List, which tracks the conservation status of the world’s plant and animal species.

But thanks to Sargent – who has given talks at local schools and set up a Facebook group, Hong Kong Snakes (whose 15,000 members exchange photos, information and advice about snake encounters) – snakes are shedding that fearful reputation.

One tour attendee and member of the Facebook group, Michelle Yu, who moved to Hong Kong from Washington DC nine years ago, says that her perception of snakes has completely transformed thanks to the community. “You go from being repulsed to actively looking out for these beautiful creatures,” she explains.

For others, the experience underlines the unique contrasts available in Hong Kong: towering skyscrapers beside exotic nature. “You get this great feeling that you can escape from the city,” says Loïc Sorgho, a 42-year-old French banker. “Where else can you go from a 50-floor building to a tropical jungle so quickly?”

Over the course of a couple hours, the group encounters nine different snakes: three bamboo pit vipers; two diamondback water snakes; one bicolored stream snake; a mock viper; a greater green; and the many-banded krait, whose diaphanously soft midriff Sargent holds out for attendees to stroke. “Please don’t touch any further than half way up its body please,” he quips. “It won’t do my insurance any good.”

And there’s plenty of other wildlife to be spotted on the tour: barking deer, leopard cats, porcupines, swamp eels, birds of prey, all manner of frogs, and fire-bellied newts, whose dark undersides are peppered with bright orange and red blotches.

Towards the end of the serpentine route along rocky, bamboo-lined paths and across babbling brooks, Sargent glimpses a baby diamondback water snake coiled on a plant and picks it up. “It’s trying to get its rear fangs into me,” he says, moments before being bitten on one fingertip. “Ouch! It’s pretty toxic to geckos, but I’ll be fine.”

Once released, the snake, which has whitish yellow diamond markings running the length of its scaly body, glides away atop the moonlit surface of the water amid a chorus of cicadas and into the perfectly still Hong Kong night.

Hong Kong Snake Safari, from $550 HKD ($70 US) per person

CNN
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It’s one of the best parts about a vacation – that moment when you discover the side of the city that’s clearly more popular with locals than tourists.

Maybe it’s the off-the-beaten-track cafe with the best coffee you’ve ever tasted, the underground bar that’s not signposted on the street above, or the restaurant dishing up mouthwatering local delicacies you’ve never heard of.

To help you discover more hidden gems on your next city break, global media brand Time Out has released its annual list of the worlds coolest neighborhoods.

Topping the 2022 round-up is buzzy Colonia Americana, located in the city of Guadalajara in western Mexico. Time Out says Colonia Americana’s eclectic mix of historic Art Deco mansions and warehouse-based music venues clinched the deal.

“Guadalajara is just emerging as a must-visit – and Colonia Americana is the place to be right now,” said Time Out Travel Editor James Manning in a statement. “It’s home to a boundary-pushing creative community, a growing number of amazing places to eat, and some of the best nightlife in the western hemisphere. And the street life is unbeatable.”

Time Out’s list is the result of an extensive survey in which thousands of people from across the globe were quizzed on their favorite spots in their city. Time Out editors also weighed in with their local expertise with the aim of creating the ultimate guide, spotlighting 51 of the coolest neighborhoods in the world. The top 20 are “simply put, incredible places to be right now,” says Time Out.

Hot on the heels of Colonia Americana is Lisbon’s riverside Cais do Sodré, which took the number two spot on the list. Long famed for its vibrant nightlife, the Portuguese neighborhood is now making a name for itself as a foodie hotspot.

“This is the neighborhood where Lisbon’s most promising young chefs are opening new restaurants,” says Time Out, namechecking Quiosque de São Paul and Tricky’s as top spots for drinking and dining.

Third on the 2022 round-up is Wat Bo Village, in Siem Reap, Cambodia. According to Time Out, the area surrounding the spectacular Wat Bo Pagoda has had a “serious glow-up” in the past year. Boutique hotels Viroth’s and Treeline Urban Resort are listed as highlights, alongside restaurant Tevy’s Place, which serves up delicious organic meals and also works as a social enterprise empowering local women.

The highest rated American neighborhood came in at number four – New York City’s Ridgewood. Time Out says this Queens-located area’s balance of new, upcoming bars and restaurants, alongside institutions like pastry shop Rudy’s Bakery – which opened in 1934 – that earned it a spot on the 2022 list.

Meanwhile Mile End in Montreal, Canada rounds out Time Out’s top five, described as a “walkable nook” hosting “some of the city’s best restaurants, independent bookstores, flower shops, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers.”

Dave Calhoun, Time Out’s chief content officer North America & UK, said the goal of the annual list was to spotlight areas that aren’t “homogenized, corporate destinations” but which instead “have an independent and welcoming vibe.”

“You may be able to walk across them in half an hour or less but they are packed with enough experiences to spend days exploring,” he said.

1. Colonia Americana – Guadalajara, Mexico

2. Cais do Sodré – Lisbon, Portugal

3. Wat Bo Village – Siem Reap, Cambodia

4. Ridgewood – New York City, USA

5. Mile End – Montreal, Canada

6. Barrio Logan – San Diego, USA

7. Shimokitazawa – Tokyo, Japan

8. Cliftonville – Margate, UK

9. Barrio Yungay – Santiago, Chile

10. Cours Julien – Marseille, France

Chiles are so important to this state, they made a law about them

For New Mexicans, chile isn’t just a food, it’s a way of life. Chiles are so important, New Mexico is only state to have an “official” question, “Red or green?”

CNN
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A tiny wooden hut with smoke sprouting from its chimney sits at the base of a windswept hill dotted with lambs. Inside is a large iron cauldron, scuffed from centuries of use and smothered in flames. As its interior bubbles, mountain barley and wild hops are married together to create a delightfully sweet, sour and cloudy ale known as aludi.

Gathered around the cauldron is a group of men who’ve stood in this very hut every year on this very day for as long as they can remember. At the helm of it all is one specially elected shulta who oversees the sacred process. Brewing aludi together is part of their unofficial brotherhood and a hallowed preparation for the coming festival.

Soon this special brew will be used to mark the start of Atnigenoba, a two-week long festival in the northeastern Georgian region of Tusheti that’s filled with paganistic ram sacrifices, shrine worship, folk dancing and fiercely competitive horse racing.

Tucked away deep in the mountains dividing Georgia from its Chechen and Dagestani neighbors, Tusheti is accessed only by a long, narrow gravel road that climbs 10,000 feet above the gorges below.

It’s a wild, untamed treasure hidden on the frontier of Europe.

Pummeled with heavy snow throughout long winters, the tourist season is brief, with the region only accessible around 4-5 months of the year, but is a paradise for hikers looking to chart new territory.

Tusheti is characterized by its breathtaking landscape and lasting folk traditions, particularly in the way of art. Its strong history of shepherding means wool textiles reign supreme, especially cozy knitted house booties and elaborate carpets in bold geometric patterns.

Come October, only a handful of locals remain in Tusheti. Braced for a long and harsh winter, they’ll be entirely cut off from the outside world, completely marooned in the wilderness. Irakli Khvedaguridze is the only licensed doctor in the region who, at 80 years old, relies solely on his wits, his horse and a trusty pair of homemade skis to service medical needs all year round.

It’s not just the locals who make a mass-exodus every fall, either. Long before the road to Tusheti was built in the 1980s, the only way in or out was on foot or horseback – a reality local shepherds have known for ages.

As winter looms, flocks of tens of thousands of sheep led by lowland-bound shepherds begin their journey south where they will graze over sunny plains through the colder months. And by the first thaw of spring, they’ll begin the annual odyssey back to their homeland.

Shepherding is not only a primary source of income for Tushetian men, it’s also a means for connection to their land and heritage. As more and more Tushetians trade the peaceful yet primitive mountain lifestyle for more modern opportunities in Georgia’s capital city Tbilisi and beyond, traditional trades like shepherding have become a point of pride.

At the heart of the region is Omalo. Crowned by the Keselo Fortress and spread across meadows dotted with horses, quaint guest houses and the occasional screeching rooster, Omalo is the designated gateway to Tusheti.

It’s also here that many wilderness-starved hikers set off to complete one of Georgia’s most famous multi-day treks: Omalo to Shatili, a fortified medieval village deep in the Arghuni Gorge. The five-day trek connects Tusheti with neighboring Khevsureti, another isolated highland region and medieval treasure trove, via an old shepherd’s path.

Spilling out of the Pirikiti Valley onto the banks of the Alazani River, is Dartlo. Not far from Omalo, this slow and sleepy ancient hamlet is characterized by its defense towers and perfectly stacked stone houses. On the outskirts of the village, sits a shell of church ruins with shrubs bursting from its sandstone, its cream colored facade returning to the nature from which it came.

In a small clearing behind the ruins is a peculiar-looking set of stones; arranged in a half circle of 12, with an additional two in the center, what looks like a micro version of Scotland’s prehistoric Ring of Brodgar is actually a 15th-century courthouse.

This traditional court, known as Sabtcheo, was where accused criminals would be tried – their sentences often banishing them from the village, exiled to the Tusheti wilderness. Stranded on the slopes above Dartlo, the village of Kvavlo makes for an excellent (albeit steep) afternoon hike.

Cheese and socks

Situated on rolling green pastures with lazily grazing herds of cattle and humble homes with ornate wooden balconies, is Shenako. Towering over the tiny village is St. George’s Church, a detail that would be easily overlooked in the lowlands, but not in Tusheti. In a region where stone shrines outnumber churches by the hundred, St. George’s feels like a rare relic.

Reached from Shenako by a winding dirt road or an overgrown footpath through the dense woods spread over a mountain or two, is Diklo. Just a couple of peaks from the Russian region of Dagestan, the village’s hilltop ruins overlook the handful of shrines, lone shepherd huts and houses peppered across the landscape.

The very last house has a chipper, rosy-cheeked woman locally known as Masho Bebo (Grandma Masho) setting out fresh morsels of cheese to age on the rafters of her balcony. Dancing in the wind is a collection of colorful wool socks, hand knitted by Masho Bebo as keepsakes for tired hikers passing through the village.

Tushetian traditions and culture have been shaped by its extreme isolation and ancient superstitions. Arguably, nothing is more representative of Tushetian culture than the countless khati (stone shrines) and salotsavi (sacred spaces) strewn across its landscape. Carefully laid stone piles adorned with animal skulls and long, curled, bovine horns can be found just about everywhere. Some allow women, many do not, but all are revered for the deity they symbolize.

Tusheti toes the line between orthodox Christian and local pagan traditions with a pronounced emphasis on the departed. Near the end of August each year is Mariamoba – a holiday dedicated to both Saint Mary and deceased loved ones. It’s a time to set the table for those no longer here, both in the recent and distant past.

A few months later in December, those brave enough to stick around will gather to celebrate Mzebudoba, the solstice and precious winter stillness that will guide them into a fertile spring. Warmed only by their fiery hearths and crackling wood fire ovens, women across Tusheti prepare ritual cakes and breads such as kada and machkati that will serve as offerings to a medley of old gods, orthodox saints and departed ancestors. A single dish of khatvisi (a traditional shepherd’s dish of boiled curd and butter), coupled with a chalice of aludi, a few machkati and a lit candle must be placed in the window that receives the sun’s first rays.

Goblins and devils

While often forgotten, Kdini in January is when goblins and devils wreak havoc. Not unlike Halloween and Day of the Dead, Kdini is a time when the veil between worlds is thinned. But instead of carving jack-o-lanterns or creating colorful offerings, some locals take to the woods for sminaoba where they’ll eagerly listen for any familiar voices attempting to contact them from beyond.

Harsh winters and a cloistered existence have created a local cuisine built around pastoral dairy, warming soups, hearty meats and buttery breads stuffed with salty cheese or creamy potatoes. While restaurants, bars and cafes are very few and far between, local guest houses are usually happy to prepare a table of favorites for their travelers.

In Guesthouse Gere – a charming timbered homestay off a lone dirt path in Omalo – two women in aprons are hard at work; despite the chilly temperatures, they’re sweating.

One of the women is rolling out dough into palm sized discs with an old glass bottle the same color as the emerald garden the house looks out on. The other is carefully piling the discs with just-cleavered sheep’s mince before swiftly crimping their edges together in perfect folds.

Just elbow’s length away is a big bubbling pot ready to receive them by the dozen – it’s a kitchen tango. While much simpler in ingredients than its lowland counterpart, Tushetian khinkali dumplings are just as delicious; especially washed down with a gulp of chacha, a powerful Georgian spirit made from the leftover pulp of wine making.

Other Tushetian staples include kotori, a thinner version of khachapuri filled with tangy cheese curds and a generous spread of butterfat; khavtisi, a dish of boiled curds and butter otherwise known as Tushetian fondue; and guda, a cheese named not after Dutch Gouda, but for the sheepskin sack in which it’s aged. A favorite of shepherds is khaghi, long slivers of meat (often sheep, goat or game) that have been meticulously brined and sun-dried to create what can only be described as Tushetian jerky.

Despite Georgia’s long history of winemaking, in Tusheti it’s beer that seems to be a local novelty. Brewed from mountain barley and wild hops, aludi is delightfully sour and sweet and takes on a hazy orange hue.

Everything in Tusheti is rooted in tradition, and aludi is no exception. While tourists are welcome to sip it casually, for Tushetians the beer is sacred – always present during rituals, holidays, festivals, funerals and so on. All said and done though, nothing warms the soul quite like a mug of kondaris chai, a local tea brewed from wild thyme or summer savory – sometimes both.

Giant roadside Cheeto attracts a crowd

A giant Cheeto with massive fingers coated in orange dust becomes a roadside attraction. CNN’s Jeanne Moos eats her way through the story.

CNN
 — 

There’s something strange going on in this Oregon neighborhood.

Sony and vacation rental company Vacasa have teamed up to offer one courageous group of friends an exclusive three-night stay in the Ghostbusters Firehouse.

The building, recreated from the 1984 film “Ghostbusters,” is in Portland – not New York City, where the film takes place. But it’s still the perfect place from which to launch a ghost-catching business.

The three-story firehouse features all the essentials: a P.K.E. Meter, Ghost Traps, Proton Packs, an Aura Video-Analyzer and an Ecto-Containment Unit to store the evil spirits you catch. Ecto-1, the Ghostbusters’ vehicle, is even parked in the firehouse bay.

Guests can wear the famous Ghostbusters fight suits and snack on Stay Puft Marshmallows, among other creepy activities. Just try not to make eye contact with the cursed painting of “Vigo the Carpathian,” the main antagonist of 1989’s “Ghostbusters II.”

“We’re dedicated to the details, and this Ghostbusters Firehouse in Portland is no exception,” Allison Lowrie, chief marketing officer at Vacasa, told CNN.

“Every room brings a new discovery, from an interactive Ghost Containment Unit to symmetrical book stacking and walls upon walls of scientific, ghost-hunting equipment. It’s designed to be enjoyed by Ghostbusters superfans and travelers with a sense of ’80s nostalgia alike.”

The immersive experience will take place from October 28 to 31, the perfect time of year to stir up spirits.

Guests brave enough to book the three-night stay can do so on October 21 at 10 a.m. PT for a nightly rate of $19.84. That rate was chosen in honor of the year Ghostbusters debuted, Vacasa said in a news release. The experience is first-come, first-serve, so mark your calendars.

And fear not, even if you can’t stay at the firehouse, you can still check out a Matterport 360 virtual tour of the building on the rental listing.

CNN
 — 

Lisbon is in the midst of a renaissance. The latest European capital of cool’s affordable rents, great nightlife and gorgeous streets – which wind high into the hills from the River Tagus – have seen younger travelers arrive in their droves in recent years, enjoying extended stays thanks to dedicated “digital nomad” visas.

As a result, the city has taken on a youthful, multicultural and international vibe, helping to pull in tourists from around the globe in the process.

It isn’t just those looking to live and work here that are driving this change, though.

Walk the streets of Portugal’s buzzing capital and it’s impossible to escape the sense of confidence around the place.

Locals have truly begun embracing their Portuguese identity, unashamedly showcasing the best of traditional food and culture, from delicious pastel de nata pastry in the Belem district to the aching sounds of Fado singing in Alfama.

It all goes to make up what Lisbon citizens call “alma” or soul, something that’s utterly unique to this wonderful place.

Visitors can see this on special nights such as June 13’s The Feast of St Anthony, perhaps the biggest night in the Lisbon calendar, when locals celebrate their patron saint with long processions that go on late into the night, preceded by epic meals of sardines and local wine in the streets.

But “alma” goes beyond just one night.

Come here at any time of the year and there’s a feeling that life is to be lived in public. That might be on the bohemian streets of the Bairro Alto neighborhood, where restaurants spill out onto narrow lanes. Or at ultra hip spots like Park, a bar atop a multi-story parking lot that has become a byword for hipster cool, not to mention incredible views. Everyone is welcome and the atmosphere remains vibrant well into the early hours.

“Alma” isn’t just about hanging out with friends or enjoying languid meals outdoors, however. It’s also found in traditional music, especially Fado.

Marrying poetry and singing and born on the streets of Lisbon’s beautiful Alfama and Mouraria neighborhoods, it is more than simply an expression of sadness and melancholy. It is rather, explains Fado singer Gisela João, an expression of Portuguese intensity and tradition.

“I think Fado, it’s the most true… as we can be expressing the personality of [the] Portuguese country, Portuguese people,” she says while walking Alfama’s streets.

João is not the archetypal Fado singer of old. She does not wear a black dress and she is also younger than most stereotypical Fado singers too.

“Why should I dress as a girl that grew up in the ’40s and ‘50s?” she asks. “It’s not who I am.”

She is, though, very much steeped in the music’s history.

“I moved here because I came to sing in a Fado restaurant,” she says. “In this street, for example, I remember that you would walk on the street and you would listen: Fado going out of the windows like here, one singing here, another one here… It was like you were in the middle of Fado.”

She is also keen to debunk the idea that sadness is what defines Fado.

“For me, [Fado] is about poetry and the poem for me, a really nice poem, is a poem that can talk about [the] life of everyone… when I sing it is when I feel that I can express myself.”

This is evident in João’s beautiful voice, which echoes around the neighborhood. It is a sound that is quintessentially Portuguese.

“We are really intense people,” she says, laughing. “We care a lot. You come to Portugal and it’s really normal that you meet someone and that person immediately invites you to go to the house, to have dinner, to be with the friends and the family and organize a big party just to receive you… We are dramatic!”

Lisbon can feel as if it’s half on land and half at sea, with the wide sweep of the River Tagus leading out to the vast Atlantic. This, after all, is a country that remains fiercely proud of its 500 years of seafaring history.

Lisbon’s famous Padrão dos Descobrimentos, Monument of the Discoveries, which stands in the Belem neighborhood on the banks of the Tagus, pays tribute to the country’s great explorers.

Henry the Navigator is depicted alongside historic figures including Vasco da Gama and Ferdinand Magellan, a tribute to Lisbon’s place at the heart of maritime discovery in the 15th and 16th centuries.

Ricardo Diniz, an intrepid solo sailor turned corporate coach, is continuing this long tradition, bringing the past into the present day.

“We’re very proud of our past. We achieved something incredible over 500 years ago, and we are reminded about this every single day,” he says, pointing from the deck of his boat out across the water.

“We are on the ocean. We have this incredible river.” When he returns after long journeys out to sea, he says his pride swells as Lisbon comes into view.

Diniz says that while the water is key to Lisbon’s traditions as well as its present and future as a modern city, the changes in recent years have been driven by people from outside talking about just how great this place is.

“In the last five years, especially, many people who come from abroad to Lisbon are surprised at what they find,” he says. “I think they are the true ambassadors of our city and our country, people from abroad talking beautifully about Portugal.”

Speak with the locals here and it won’t be long before they remind you of the great explorers and the Age of Discovery some 500 years ago. However, there wasn’t always much to be said about its more modern past. Much of that has changed in the last 20 years, though, as that sense of confidence has come to be felt across the city with Lisbon’s resurgence as a tourist destination and a place to work and play.

That’s particularly clear in Lisbon’s food scene.

Acclaimed chef Jose Avillez has championed Portuguese fine dining for years. Fifteen years ago he began introducing that most humble of local dishes, the sardine, to his high end restaurant.

They are, he says, “… very, very special, because it’s something that we have only three, four months, a year, maximum.

“When Portuguese [people] arrive at a contemporary Portuguese restaurant… he expects to have modern food, but to have the soul of Portuguese food. So we have a lot of respect for the sardines.”

You can’t avoid coming back to that sense of soul when in Lisbon. It is, explains Avillez, all about a respect for tradition while bringing dishes into the future.

“I would say that Portuguese cuisine that is transmitted from grandmothers to granddaughters, from mothers to daughters is the art of bringing the flavors with simplicity, with love. [That] is what we try to do, even if you do it very creatively with a lot of creativity – if it’s fine dining, it’s a two-Michelin star, whatever, what you need to bring to your guests is something delicious. And, I will say 90% of the time, quite simple.”

That’s certainly true of Avillez’s cuisine, from his simple sardine recipes to his delicious steak.

And, of course, no meal in Lisbon would be complete without a famous pastel de nata, the custard tart which comes from Belem. These small treats have gone global in recent years, but they taste at their very best right here in this brilliant city.

Lisbon’s renaissance is something to behold, especially with something so delicious to hand. A place that has changed in so many ways in the 21st century, but has managed to stay true to its roots, its past and its fascinating history.

Editor’s Note: All-new episodes of “Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy” Sundays, at 9 p.m. ET only on CNN. Sign up to CNN Travel’s Unlocking Italy newsletter for more.

CNN
 — 

It’s super strong, fennel-flavored, as transparent as water – and in many households across Sardinia it’s still produced illegally.

Filu ‘e ferru, or “iron wire,” is an old drink with a dangerous past and an alcohol concentration of up to 45% that knocks out even those with a high tolerance.

Rosa Maria Scrugli was barely 23 years old when in 1970 she was sent on a work mission to the small town of Santu Lussurgiu, set in the wild Oristano area of western Sardinia amid rocky hills and caves.

For 400 years, this place of barely 2,000 residents has been making a potent filu ‘e ferru locally dubbed “abbardente” – a word deriving from Latin which fittingly means “burning water.”

The mayor – the town’s cobbler – greeted Scrugli at noon with several welcoming shots, but by the time she’d downed the second, she nearly collapsed, falling on top of the mayor who was only a bit tipsy.

“The next thing I knew, someone had dragged me away and I woke up in my hotel room with the worst hangover ever. The mayor also wasn’t feeling too well, but he was used to drinking filu ‘e ferru. It was my first time, and it was a shock,” Scrugli tells CNN.

Santu Lussurgiu is considered the cradle of the oldest Sardinian tradition of “acquavite” – literally “vine water” in Italian, and indicating a premium alcohol distillate.

“Acquavite and abbardente are just synonyms for filu ‘e ferru, which is a metaphor, part of a secret code invented at a later stage to refer to acquavite in order to escape police controls,” says Santu Lussurgiu’s only (legal) distiller Carlo Psiche.

It became an “outlaw” drink in the 19th century when Italy’s royal house of Savoy introduced levies on alcohol production, kick-starting an illegal trade that in Santu Lussurgiu continues on a mass scale.

Up until a few decades ago police raids were frequent, farmers had to hide bottles of their filu ‘e ferru either in some secret place at home or underground in their garden, marking the spot with a piece of iron. Hence the name “iron wire.”

In coming up with such a nickname, locals might have also been inspired by the nearby rocky mountain range of volcanic origin called Montiferru – the “iron hill.”

What has always made Santu Lussurgiu’s acquavite exceptional, as opposed to those produced in the rest of Sardinia, is that it is distilled from wine, not marc, a spirit made from the residue of the skins and seeds of grapes after the wine has been extracted. It is therefore not a grappa – Italy’s favorite post-meal shot.

Psiche claims his Distillerie Lussurgesi, featuring alembic copper stills used for old-style distillation processes, is the only one among the five filu ‘e ferru distilleries in the wider region to use real wine instead of marc, or “vinacce.”

Meanwhile, families in the village have been brewing filu ‘e ferru at home since the late 16th century, after monks from the local abbey introduced this potent alcoholic distillate in the area.

“At first it was used for its medical and therapeutic properties, particularly for toothache, then people realized it was great as booze, too,” says Psiche.

Police raids and secret signals

Everyone in the village still secretly makes abbardente at home. None of them pay taxes on it, except for Psiche, who runs a business.

Nowadays things are less risky than in the past. After all, many Italians brew wine and all sorts of liqueurs at home, and authorities no longer go knocking on people’s doors unless they’ve set up a large-scale business.

Psiche recalls that up until the 1960s, when tax police patrolled the village in search of clandestine producers, people would hurry to hide their bottles and alembics, shouting to each other the emergency code “filu ‘e ferru.” It was like a curfew signal.

“I was just a kid, but I remember the elders describing the policemen parking their cars in front of the town hall and wandering around hunting like hounds for illegal producers.”

Fennel seeds are added to filu ‘e ferru to soften the pungent flavor, and given its intense scent, the smell of fennel oozing out from homes occasionally helped the police track down illegal activity.

“There used to be a village messenger whose job was to announce local laws, events and measures by trumpet. When the abbardente raids occurred he’d use another key to warn people,” says Psiche.

Italians and foreigners who knew of the secret filu ‘e ferru would flock to Santu Lussurgiu to buy entire flasks of it, says Psiche, but they asked too many questions with the risk of exposing producers. So eventually locals decided to go completely underground.

The village had some 40 distilleries by the end of the 1800s, when filu ‘e ferru had become a popular drink and was exported across Italy. However, the distilleries were shut in the early 20th century and production became solely “domestic.”

Psiche, a former mechanic, decided to recover the old village tradition of acquavite 20 years ago. His abbardente, made with fresh local white grapes, comes in two versions, both aged for at least 12 months.

The clear-as-water abbardente has an intense enveloping taste with a slight dried fruit and almonds flavor, and is diluted with water from a nearby village source. It is aged in steel tanks.

The amber colored abbardente is instead aged in oak barrels. The wood maturation gives it a sweetish flavor reminiscent of honey and homemade bread.

Psiche’s artisan distillery features old distillation objects and an original acquavite bottle from 1860. He has several American clients in Ohio and Chicago, where many villagers migrated.

“Our village has always used wine instead of marc because the vineyards over here tend to over-yield so the best way to avoid any waste was to use the wine to make abbardente,” says Psiche.

While men tended to the fields, filu ‘e ferru production in Sardinia was a women’s business. Wives, daughters and grandmas became experts in distillation. At first, huge pots of copper, traditionally for milk, were used and sealed with flour dough to heat the wine. Later, the ladies turned to copper stills.

Sardinians have a love affair with their “hot water,” just as Neapolitans do with coffee.

Even though it is great as an after-dinner digestif, whenever it’s toasting time a shot of abbardente works fine.

According to Psiche, it’s also a drink with which to observe death: when someone dies it is customary to savor a glass of filu ‘e ferru during the midnight wake to honor the deceased.

Filu ‘e ferru is as fiery as the Sardinians who keep making it at home, just like their ancestors, sticking to tradition. They believe it can be drunk just like pure water.

One woman from Santu Lussurgiu, who spoke to CNN on condition of anonymity over fear of being busted by authorities, says it’s not just for special occasions: “Those who like it drink it at any time of the day, even at breakfast.”

Making filu ‘e ferru strictly for personal consumption, she uses a huge alembic belonging to her grandparents that has been in the family since the 1960s.

“It takes me half a day to distil the wine, which grows on our land. Other than fennel, I often add absinthe,” she said.

The woman says she has now also involved her son in the daily preparation of their homemade filu ‘e ferru – perhaps a sign of changing times that men like Psiche should play a key role in preserving the alcoholic heritage.

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 — 

A rich palette of shimmering caramel swirls, ochers, creams and pinks unfolds across the landscape like an enormous handwoven carpet. Stands of poplars line paths carved by ancient lava flows from three now extinct volcanoes, crisscrossing valleys studded with conical peribacı.

This is Cappadocia, central Turkey, famous for its whimsical “fairy chimneys,” to give peribacı their English name.

Cappadocia has an abundance of them, as well as rock churches and monasteries. The region is dotted with former farming communities with dwellings and outbuildings carved out of stone, where ordinary people lived next door to monks.

When the volcanic ash cooled down, it left behind soft porous rock called tufa. Over thousands of years the tufa was eroded and shaped by water and wind.

It’s easy to carve but hardens on exposure to air. Until the 1950s most of the population lived in these surreal rock formations, a tradition dating back centuries.

Now they’re one of Turkey’s most striking tourist attractions, often viewed from the air by the floating legions of hot air balloons that regularly fill the sky.

But, say locals, the real way to appreciate all this is on foot – or hoof. Here are some of the best options for exploring Cappadocia:

This archaeological treasure trove offers the chance to experience a typical rural settlement, including a look inside ancient houses, stables, kitchen, churches and monastic chambers carved out of fairy chimneys and rock faces.

Here it’s possible to imagine what Cappadocia’s fairy chimneys looked like when Orthodox Christianity was at its height during the medieval Byzantine period.

“Zelve was permanently occupied from the sixth century to the 20th century, which is something amazing,” says Tolga Uyar, a medieval art historian at nearby Nevşehir Hacı Bektaş Veli University. That’s more than 1,400 hundred years.

Like most of the inhabited caves in Cappadocia, spaces were re-used, re-carved and transformed. Now Zelve is a model of a rock carved civilization preserved from early Christian times through to the modern Turkish Republic.

Clearly marked paths make Zelve easy to get around and give an idea of what you’re likely to come across elsewhere in the valleys.

In summer, much of Cappadocia appears arid and lifeless. The plains on the approach to Ihlara Vadısı seem no different, until you peer over the edge and see the tops of the lush green trees lining the Melendiz River below.

The length of Ihlara Valley stretches along its banks, the location of a pleasant eight-mile hike beginning at Ihlara Village and ending at Selime Manastırı.

In early spring, bush nightingales warble love songs, flowers dance to the “oop oop” call of the ibibik or hoopoe bird, and the burble of water lulls you into a contemplative silence.

Like anywhere in Cappadocia there are centuries-old churches decorated with murals.

There are picnic spots or small restaurants on the banks of the river in Belisırma for lunch.

At the point where the valley opens up, the imposing Selime Monastery, believed to date from the eight or ninth century BCE, comes into view. It’s worth climbing the 300 steps to look inside.

Several walks start from Çavuşin, a village once home to a mix of Turkish Muslims and Orthodox Christian Greeks known as Rum.

Here, the huge Church of John the Baptist, dating from the fifth century, is the biggest cave church in the region.

Hikers should head up through the village to the cemetery, where a track leads to Kızılçukur. It meanders through orchards filled with apple and apricot trees and skirts fields of grapes, ripening on the vine.

There are several old churches along the way, the most famous being Üzümlü Kilise (Church of the Grapes). At Kızılçukur (Red Valley), the fairy chimneys are pinkish in color by day and take on a beautiful red hue at sunset due to iron ore in the tufa.

It’s possible to follow the track on your own, but many of the churches are either hard to find or locked. Having a Turkish speaking guide that knows who to ask for the key makes for a richer, more rewarding experience.

One such guide is Mehmet Güngör who, since 1998, has run Walking Mehmet in the small town of Göreme where he still lives in a home partly carved out of rock.

He started by chance. “One day I met a couple (of tourists) and we walked with my dog for a few hours,” he says. “At the end they gave me a tip. Then I decided to be a walking guide.”

Güngör’s been sharing knowledge about his favorite places ever since.

Over the last 25 years he’s seen locals move from farming to tourism. Cleansed of agricultural additives, the landscape has transformed with the reappearance of species of flora and fauna long thought to have vanished.

In spring, rare iris galatica bloom. The dark blue or purple petals of these flowers, highlighted with pops of yellow, spring from narrow crevices. Güngör knows where to find them, along with wild asparagus, orchids and thyme.

On your own, if you’re lucky, you might spot a tortoise hiding under a bush or an eagle hovering in the sky. With Güngör, hikers “will see churches and monasteries from the fifth, sixth and seventh centuries they won’t be able to find on their own.”

He also does full moon night walks, hikes that give the best light for photographing the valleys, or ones suitable for hot days.

Güngör loves what he does because guiding tourists through the valleys is more than a job, he says.

“Cappadocia is like no other place. It’s full of positive energy. While walking I become one with nature.”

For those that don’t want to walk, there are horse tours. Cappadocia has long been referred to as the “land of wild horses” after free-roaming animals known as yılkı.

Prior to the mechanization of agriculture, working horses on farms were turned loose in winter when the harvest was over, to roam at will. In spring, they’d be rounded up and put to work again, but once tractors replaced them permanently, they were left to fend for themselves.

The horses at Cemal Ranch are anything but wild and are well-looked after all year round.

Cemal Koksal, born and raised in the nearby town of Ortahisar, is passionate about the business he established 15 years ago with his brother and horse-breeding father.

“The peace and naturalness of horse riding in such a unique and fascinating landscape on my favorite horse helps to keep me close to nature and close to my family roots of breeding and working with horses,” he says.

Cemal Ranch runs different small group tours (maximum 14 people) suitable for beginners, even children, right through to more experienced riders. Everyone gets a short training session before any tour and helmets are obligatory.

Participants on longer tours get to sample food cooked by Koksal’s mom.

It’s the only horse trekking outfit with sunset access to Cappadocia’s Rose and Red valleys. “Looking down on all the stunning valleys as they change colors in the sunset light is magical.”

He adds: “I am the happiest on a horse and happiest riding in the beautiful valleys of Cappadocia. It’s the ultimate freedom and peacefulness”.

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For over 500 years, Michelangelo’s sculpture of David in Florence has stood unchanged, the marble icon of masculinity, and one of the world’s most famous works of art.

But as Italy emerges from the pandemic, the David has got a whole new look.

A new lighting system has revolutionized how the famous statue looks, with small details visible for the first time in its history.

“A few days ago, I noticed muscles on the body that I’d never seen before,” says Lucia Lazic, a guide who visits the Accademia Gallery most days.

“I said, ‘What on earth? How have I never seen this?’ The lighting is much better on the David.”

Cecilie Hollberg, director of the Accademia, said in a statement that the lighting has “changed the visual perception of the artworks,” telling CNN that the David’s marble looks “whiter” and that the details are “more visible.”

The lighting – completed in September as part of works that were unveiled this week – aimed to bring the “dynamism of sunlight” into the Tribuna room where the statue is kept under a domed skylight.

LED spotlights were installed in a circle above the statue, allowing them to “completely envelop the David and leave the rest of the space in the background.”

The color of the light changes imperceptibly during the day, while the spotlights are of varying warmth, allowing visitors to get a new perspective with every step around the statue.

The new-look David is part of a wider revamp of the museum, which was Italy’s second most visited in 2019.

The Galleria dei Prigioni, or “prisoners corridor” – named after Michelangelo’s four semi-finished sculptures of prisoners of war, which share the space with two of his other works – has also had its lighting switched up, with several spotlights pointed on each sculpture.

“It used to be that the prisoners looked yellow, and David was white. Now they’re the same color,” Hollberg told CNN.

“You can now see every chisel mark on them.”

The new lighting system, which “restores the right balance of chiaroscuro and color to the works,” is also energy-efficient. Hollberg says the gallery should use around 80% less electricity than in previous years.

It’s not just the headline works that are looking different. Several of the other rooms of the gallery have had their previously beige walls painted in colors that maximize those in the paintings.

The Sala del Colosso, the gallery’s first room, is now a bright blue, while the 13th and 14th-century rooms are a pale green, chosen to bring out the gold used in most of the paintings.

And the new lighting everywhere has transformed the paintings from things tourists used to rush past en route to David, to unmissable in their own right.

“One regular visitor said, ‘Where was all this detail? We never saw it,’” Hollberg told CNN. “In one painting by Domenico Ghirlandaio you can now see all the gold dots in the [saints’] halos. Before, the beige walls flattened the gold. In another, it feels like you could pluck the pearls from the painting – before you couldn’t see them at all.

“My job is to give value and visibility to all the works. Every single work here is a masterpiece, but works die on a beige background – they need to be lifted and supported by color. I want to give them what they deserve.”

In the past, the lighting was so bad that some paintings were barely visible – like those beside the David. “Before it was all dark, you couldn’t see them – no one stopped,” said Hollberg. One time she saw a guide shining their phone torch on another painting in a bid to show it to visitors.

Tourists have already changed their behavior, she said.

“Now they stop and look. They’re not all in front of the David like before. I’ve followed groups, and they used to cut through the Sala del Colosso and never stop. Now I see that room full of visitors – it’s redistributing the crowds.”

Lazic, a guide with Elite Italian Experience, agrees: “There are more people stopping in the Sala del Colosso.”

The renovations, which started just before the pandemic and which have been rolled out this year, have finished with the revamp of the Gipsoteca. The plaster cast gallery was another rush-through place. That’s if it was open – with no open windows or air conditioning, it used to close at midday during the summer.

But now with air conditioning, powder blue walls and a new layout for the 414 plaster casts – mostly done by sculptor Lorenzo Bartolini, whose works are found in the Louvre, Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum and the Metropolitan Museum of Art – it’s a place to linger.

Hollberg says that locals are starting to appreciate the museum, too. “Before it was a space for tourists, but Florentines are rediscovering it. We got the last resisters in with a concert series.”

Dario Franceschini, Italy’s minister of culture, called the reopening of the Gipsoteca “an important step… in bringing [the Accademia] into the 21st century.”

He added: “The works across the entire building have allowed significant innovations in the systems, transforming a museum conceived in the late 19th century into a modern venue without distorting it.”