I never knew I was on the Hungarian government’s bad side. “It doesn’t work,” the ticket agent to Hungary’s Parliament building tour says to me almost laughing. She seems to say, “You fool. You don’t even haven enough money on your credit card to tour all of this opulence.” Luckily my friend spots the check on this one. Budapest’s Parliament has long been a structure I have wanted to see in person. A huffy ticket agent who thinks me a pauper or criminal won’t stop me from living up to the dream.

Guards in furry coats pace outside as I make the call. As it would turn out, there is no problem with my credit card. It was the antiquated machine trying to scan it. Perhaps they still use the same credit card machines from when the Parliament opened. As the second largest Parliament building in Europe, Hungary’s space is grand from its exterior only just to start. Ground broke on its construction in 1885, all in support of the design of Imre Steindl. It would take the life of a teenager, some 13 years to complete.

At 268 meters long and topped with a 93 meter high dome, I think the Hungarian Parliament of my imagination was even bigger. Those furry adorned guards finally pull back the rope and let the English tour head inside. All must go through security first and foremost. While this wouldn’t be a problem, my credit card issues aside, we wait outside, removing jackets and scarves in freezing weather. I have chills long before I see the inside.

Post security checkpoint, I wish I had my sunglasses. The Parliament’s interior covers in 40 kilograms of gold, all for decoration of course. Throw in 10 courtyards, 13 elevators, 29 staircases and over 690 rooms and you have a government building fit for politicking.

Sadly, the tour of this structure only invites the lowly tourists like myself to see a crumb of the building. I climb one of the many staircases within, adorned in several red carpets. They roll out not just one red carpet in Hungary, but at least a trinity of velvet. You never know how many dignitaries and world leaders might show up on a given day.

I head up the stairs to the big cheese of the structure, the precious Crown of St. Stephen. Legend has it that the crown was presented to St. Stephen, first king of Hungary, back in the 1000s. However, legends are always more romanticized than reality. Many believe the crown to be from the 12^th century. It is still considered the symbol of Hungary, as best seen through the stern guards’ eyes keeping watch over it in case some tourist should make a move to swipe the crown jewels. The Crown of St. Stephen is well traveled. It has disappeared several times, including when it wound up in the US Army’s hands in 1945. The crown sat in a box at Fort Knox, Kentucky for years until someone finally had the good heart to return the crown to Hungary in 1978.

The next and final stop of the tour is the Chamber of the Lower House of the National Assembly of Hungary. I can see why the government doesn’t convene much in this space today. All of the shiny gold details would distract any politician from their country and cause.

My guide quickly ushers the masses out with a forced goodbye. I take one last look at a building I longed to enter and see first hand. And while the Parliament’s credit card machine tried to deter me, along with the suspicious glances from the guards inside and out, I made it, forever blinded by the over the top, gold greatness of Hungary’s Parliament.

Have you been to Hungary’s Parliament Building in Budapest?

The clouds suggest an invasion of the spring storm variety, but I know this spot isn’t spooked. The ancient city of Nora, set up on the southern coast of Sardinia, has seen conquerors come and go, thunderheads included. With a sprinkle of rain, I roam the supposed first town on the Italian island.

Founded by the Phoenicians in the 9^th century B.C., Nora would change hands between the Carthaginians and the Romans. Most of what I observe are vestiges of Roman rule, proof that no island was isolated enough for the Romans to reach.

And like any respectable Roman site, I come upon an amphitheater, or at least its half. The show must go on regardless of erosion and time.

Nora fills with more former stages of ancient life. Exposed and open to the elements, all that remains of Nora’s patrician villas are intricate mosaic floorings. Like walking on a piece of art, life was decent back in the day in Sardinia’s first town.

Some of Nora’s ruins have scattered into the water, only seen when the sun is shining. Sadly today is a May spring day on Sardinia, when thunder grumbles, almost out of distaste for my invasion of this ancient city.

As the light drizzle turns more downpour and the skies darken ominously, I head for Nora’s exit. I pass by what appear to be piles of rumble, but they are in fact a town, a former home to many, a place of devotion. The sky and sea are the only constants that have seen the pieces of Nora’s puzzle come together and fade away. Nora can be in ruin, forgotten and left to crumble, but those constants know who she was.

Knowing my destination and not knowing it at the same time, my taxi driver slammed on his brakes in the middle of a cliff-top road. With a whole line of cars waiting behind him, I knew his  yelling and pointing in Italian meant he wanted me to get out of the taxi, admire the view and take a photograph. Traffic can wait for the wide eyed to see the pull of Sorrento. Jet lagged and uncertain, I did as I was told. In many respects, I have to thank that driver. He knew this moment and view would be one I wouldn’t forget.

The Greek’s believed Sorrento was the site of the mythical sirens, those creatures that would lure sailors, Odysseus included, with their song as a trap. And while many believe Sorrento to be nothing more than a tourist trap, I found myself trapped in its subtle songs, even those songs, or shouts, of persistent taxi drivers.

I was studying Italian and Tarantella, the area’s main song and dance that tells its history over the last 500 years. I frequented a number of these tarantella shows. While most of those in the audience were 60 years my senior, the youthful emotions of Sorrento’s performance side carried throughout the room. Tasso Theater buzzed with song and dance, proof yet again Sorrento  knows how to keep you entertained.

When I wasn’t in class or down by the water in Sorrento, I would try to find those spaces in the city that weren’t so touristy. From a little train running through Sorrento’s main thoroughfares to countless shops selling lemoncello, the town on the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Naples can seem devoid of locals. However down at the weekly market, little old ladies pushed their rolling suitcase like carts to load up on the fruits of the land.

Families worked behind these stalls, with each member assigned to a certain job. From the son’s task of shouting out for shoppers to the father hurrying the bagging process, Sorrento’s market is a family and local affair.

Most know of Sorrento’s Marina Piccola, where the ferries depart for Capri. Marina Grande is actually less frequented  in Sorrento and much more localized. Crumbling old buildings stand covered in scaffolding. I suspect it might still be this way. A lone old man keeps his perch on a balcony above. Little toddlers play in boats just beyond. Fishermen cast off for the day in rickety boats. It is activity and inactivity all rolled into one marina.

Sorrento trapped me, much like those sailors in mythology, most importantly with the color of her sunsets. From Villa Comunale Park, I would watch the sunset over the Bay of Naples. While the space seemed more town square than park, the sky was the attraction. Tourists and locals gushed over these magenta and lavender skies each night. And for a moment while watching the sun fade over Mt. Vesuvius, I think I heard the sirens of Sorrento. Sometimes the myth is no myth at all.

Have you been to Sorrento?

My feet land in New Orleans and I instantly know this city is all about food and drink. While the masses of seemingly underage spring break college kids tote around their green grenade filled drinks hunting for the next bar, I am in search of something a little more innocent, a grape snowball. With a band rocking out on a stage set up in the French Market, people aren’t the only spectators. The scents of crawfish cakes and shrimp balls swarm the crowds.

Going on a diet in New Orleans might be the greatest impossibility. With so much food and drink to be had, I brought my empty stomach and my thirst for a few days to its table. And while there are so many classic dishes and drinks in New Orleans, a weekend only scratches the surface of tummies. Here is my sampling of food and drink in New Orleans, dishes and drinks I am probably still working off. At least a snowball is low-cal, right?

Step One: Attend A New Orleans Food Festival

Having arrived from the road, I instantly made my way to the French Market. The Roadfood Street Festival was taking place, an annual springtime event in New Orleans. Across four blocks in the French Market, stalls line up from local restaurants, eateries across the state and food staples all over America. You can really pick and choose what you want and how much you want. I went for a tasting of a soft shell crab po’boy. Po’boys are the sandwiches of the city, served on French bread. Clovis and Benjamin Martin came up with the inexpensive sandwich for striking streetcar drivers. When one would come up to order, they would shout to the kitchen, “Here comes another poor boy,” and thus the sandwich was born. It now carries many varieties like this crabby version.

And while the beer flows for New Orleans’ food and drink festivals, I only want a snowball, another taste of the city. Snowballs are what most of us would call a glorified snow cone, consisting of finely shaved ice and sprayed with an assortment of flavors. I watch as my artificial grape flavoring coats the ice shavings. The fingertips of the man creating this staple are dyed every shade of snowball up for offer. You can tell what snowball flavors are most popular merely by looking at his hands. They tell the snowball story.

Step Two: Consume The Other Sandwich

New Orleans’ po’boys make room for another famous sandwich, the muffuletta. The place to go from these sandwiches, while served all over town, is the Central Grocery, also in the French Quarter. I am quickly hurried to a line where a less than friendly man throws me my pre-made sandwich.

Composed of salami, ham, provolone, oil, vinegar and a spicy olive spread, the monster of a sandwich hit the spot. Sicilian immigrants opened the very store  and brought the sandwich to New Orleans. While I enjoyed this mouthful to say and eat, I was a little disappointed in the experience. A stack of sandwiches sat pre-made as they tossed them at the tourists like Frisbees. This could be different, but my stomach wasn’t complaining.

Step Three: Hop on The Bar That Moves

In New Orleans, there is no shortage of drinking holes, including the unique. It’s not everyday you get to take a ride on a rotating bar or a carousel no less. I step right up to the Carousel Bar at the Monteleone Hotel. Mentioned in the writings of Ernest Hemingway, the stools decorated like carousel seats with circus scenes rotate ever so slowly around a stationary bar.

Depending on how long it takes you to down your drink, I made my way around the room three times without ever lifting a foot on a one beer visit. The tipsy man next to me, complete with a handlebar mustache jokes with his friends, “Oh, I didn’t even know we were moving.” It might be time to get off the carousel.

Step Four: Find The Burger in the Big Easy

If you get a little tired of fish while in New Orleans, Port of Call serves up one of the best burgers in the city. Established in 1963 on the edge of the French Quarter, the neighborhood restaurant is more like walking into a restaurant that could appear on Gilligan’s Island. Dimly lit, you order cheeseburgers and steaks, even if you can’t see it.

I order a Neptune’s Monsoon to wash down my burger, a drink seemingly the size of a skyscraper. A few sips deep and suddenly Port of Call gets even hazier. Its contents aren’t important other than I could be dining with Gilligan and thinking myself Ginger if I finished the whole thing.

Step Five: Wait For The Hurricane

Pat O’Brien’s, the bar serving up legendary hurricanes, has been around legally since 1933. Before that time Pat O’Brien’s spent its days underground as a speakeasy. By the 1940s, the hurricane drink was created here. Before I can even open my mouth to tell the waiter what I want he says, “Hurricane?”. There must be something on my face that screams tourist.

The glass is a thing a beauty, made to look like a hurricane lamp. Garnished with an orange slice and a cherry on top, the fruity rum concoction is sweet for certain. You can take your glass home as a souvenir or return it for a few dollars.

Step Six: Let Them Eat Beignets

I close out my eating time in New Orleans under the striped green and white tent of Café du Monde. Founded in 1862 in the French Market, the space is known for its café au lait and beignets, a fried doughnut of sorts. One order of beignets produces three, piled high with powdered sugar.

I take a bite and instantly find a new addiction. Warm and chewy, I can see why these beignets warrant Café du Monde to be open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. With the exception of Christmas or a hurricane, let them eat beignets, New Orleans seems to say.

Have you broken your diet in New Orleans?

The cold has consumed every inch of my being, and yet, I am on the hunt for wine. When visiting Hungary in the winter, the only way to keep warm is with the strongest of spirits and wines. For me, European wine has long been synonymous with the famous producers like France and Italy. Seldom have I contemplated Hungary as a wine destination. However the country houses the oldest classified wine region in all of Europe. And when you are the oldest, you probably know a thing or two about your product. I face a daunting set of stairs,  dusted perfectly in snow, to taste these wise, old wines. It is my stairway to wine heaven.

I am in search of the House of Hungarian Wines– Buda Castle, otherwise Magyar Borck Háza. Perched on Budapest’s Castle Hill, the location overwhelms more than the possibility of wine tasting. I already feel a few glasses of wine deep in this setting of glowing spires and arches. Frozen to the core, I finally reach a very plain door, telling me I have arrived at this house of wines.

The House of Hungarian Wines boasts Hungarian wines from all of the country’s 22 regions. I read you could pay a flat fee for samplings, letting your nose and taste buds guide you where they will. However, I found the experience to be a bit more organized than carefree. You can select what tasting package you would like from the wine house’s main selections. The cheapest package runs at $18, allowing you to sample three different Hungarian wines. Other options include award-winning groupings, Hungarian spirits, exclusive wines and the House’s own selection. I decide to go with the World Famous Tokaji Wines, a sampling of one of the oldest wine regions in Hungary for $24 for 4 glasses of wine.

Those running the wine house offer tours of their cellar if you don’t show up 45 minutes before closing. Unfortunately, I think I was given the fast track tour as the woman told me to just go explore the cellar and then come back up for my tasting. The cellar is impressive, chalk full of over 700 choices in wines. Placards invite you to learn more about your sampling section. I find my Tokaji selection boasts of being a favorite of popes and royals. The northeastern wine region has been churning out this product since the 16^th century.

Knowing the clock is ticking, I hurry through this maze of a cellar and head back up for my tasting. The woman presents the first dry white wine, beginning with the lightest in color. She tells me what to taste and smell, along with a little background on the wine. To top off her explanation of each wine, she smiles and says, “Enjoy!” as she makes her way back to her computer perch.

My second glass is a semi-dry white wine, coupled with a cracker/cookie palette cleanser. Surprisingly, the wine doesn’t taste over processed or fraught with chemicals as most white wines taste for me. My third glass is sweeter, clearly darker than the first and second glasses, signaling the conclusion of the tasting  is imminent.

By the time I reach my final tasting, a late harvested sweet dessert wine, I am starting to realize you should never come to a wine tasting just before closing. A little fuzzy, my taste buds still tell me this sweet, almost honey infused wine would most certainly compliment a dessert.

While white wine has never been a favorite of mine, I found these wines to be exceptional, something I didn’t expect from Hungary. And for $24, I sampled four wines I would otherwise have missed while in Budapest. The House of Hungarian Wines– Buda Castle explains why wine is so important to the city and country. Sippers or sluggers get out of the cold and learn a thing or two about wine regions you don’t notice everyday. However, four glasses of wine warrant more time than an hour, especially if you still want to be able to say cheers in Hungarian as you sip. Egészségedre!

Have you been wine tasting in Hungary?

She rests her head on his shoulder as they contemplate the world, the world as seen on the departure board at the Munich Airport. Seemingly in no hurry, the couple embodies the airport for me. Airports are places of great emotional rollercoasters. We say goodbye and hello. We love them. We hate them. If ever there were a place of to loathe and love, the airport would be it.

My flight back to Denver from Munich was set to leave the next morning. And when you are paranoid about being late, you don’t want to stay too far away from the airport for fear of a flat tire or traffic. So I stayed in the airport to ensure I wouldn’t miss my flight. I decided to roam Munich’s great space of departure and arrival, much to the suspicion of several severe looking Munich police officers. I wanted to see the space without the hurry I usually see it in or without the cloud of intoxicating excitement of heading on a new adventure. I just wanted to see the airport as a casual observer.

My first stop was the departure board. I could stare at these screen for hours, contemplating who is headed to Dusseldorf or over to Angola. These boards, like the rest of the airport, can either send us into a fit of joy or just a fit over a delay or cancelation. We look to the screens for guidance, as many are doing today. They tell us where we are going and when. They suggest if we will miss our flight or make it. Our traveling fate lies in what the departure screens tells us.

I continue my tour of the airport as an observer to the typical airport sports bar. You know the meal here isn’t going to be 5 star. It is merely sustenance for the road. There is always a game on to distract from the inevitable goodby or the exciting hello a flight away. We distract ourselves with games in the airport to kill time or prolong it. I have my last supper in Munich with many doing the same. It is where the airport breaks bread before jetting off to other lands.

After a few too many suspicious stares from airport security, I decide to get a whiff of fresh air. The Munich Airport is almost cut into two parts, with a great space dividing two terminals. Right in front of my terminal is an expansive piazza, under a glass dome of a roof keeping it all together. It is where many take their first breaths of Munich, whether coming home or traveling away from it. The air stings any exposed patch of skin. Europe is still in the freezer and Munich is no exception. This is perhaps where the saddest of exchanges take place, those saying goodbye. It is the airport’s “to be continued” scene.

While pondering those tearful goodbyes, I decide to head back inside to go see why so many love airports, myself included. A grouping of people, mostly without luggage, stand awkwardly dispersed facing a wall of automatic doors. With the opening of each automatic door, you can almost hear heartbeats skip. The eyes become more attentive, in search of the familiar face. And once they catch those eyes, it is never sadness you see here or anger for that matter. It is the joy of welcoming another to a new place. I watch as families collect their children or couples reunite. There is no more hopeful of a place.

Now, it’s my turn to say goodbye. I head through security, discovering the enhanced pat-downs in the U.S. have made their way to Germany. I perch at my gate after going through a second security. They must have the video footage of me trolling the airport yesterday. And finally, it is the other hope at the airport, the plane parked at the gate. I can breathe a sign of relief from this perch. No security line or airline mishaps are going to stop me from traveling today. And in looking at the planes parked at the gates in a uniform fashion, I realize my next plane ticket must be booked. The dichotomy of the airport has come full circle.

I learned a great deal about travel in Italian apartments, one in Sorrento and the other in Florence. Behind the walls of these structures were families I grew to call my Italian families. Behind the walls I learned that travel isn’t solely about seeing and doing. Travel is about people. Travel is about connections that come in shared spaces.

Picked up in a strange city by a man holding my misspelled name on a flimsy piece of paper, I placed my trust in another to drop me off at my assigned apartment in Florence. I was studying abroad for a semester, a little more wide eyed, if that’s possible, at the time on Florence and travel as a whole at the tender age of 20.

 The names Gucci, Cavalli flashed rapidly through my window view in a rickety white van. On a one-way, busy street, one I quickly noticed seemed to be dripping in Florentine high fashion, the van screeched to a halt. The driver threw my bags on the sidewalk and headed for the driver’s seat. I shouted, “Quale numero?” and received the most rapid of responses. With giant golden handles and a list of buzzers before me, including my neighbors, Gucci, I rang the bell. Jet lagged and unsure, an elderly man warmly greeted me with the double kiss, motioning me inside. I would meet his wife and the other student I would be sharing this home stay apartment with for 6 months. And throughout the walls of that apartment in Florence, I learned a thing or two about the Florentines.

In case you haven’t heard, travel and accommodation hunting company Go With Oh has launched a Blogger Competition, inviting travel bloggers to share five reasons why they are oh so deserving (pun intended), creative and all around wonderful to receive a month of accommodations throughout four of their European cities. The blogger must list five reasons why they want to Go With Oh to their selected city. The blogger then will be tasked with documenting their stays and travels. This is my hat in the ring of the five things I would most like to experience in Florence. If you would like to see me in Europe this fall and/or enjoyed this post, please let me know by leaving a comment.

 For Loriana’s Cooking

You won’t find this attraction in any guidebook, but in studying abroad in Florence, my stomach grew with each passing meal at Loriana’s table. She was my Italian host mom, serving up risottos I only could dream about upon returning back to the United States. We would dine in a kitchen no bigger than an American closet, discussing our cultures, our dreams and our lives. It was a sacred space. Dinnertime in that very kitchen was everything about Florence to me. While the world compliments Italian cuisine, it is the Florentine flair for flavor I crave.

For Church Perch People Watching

Florence crawls in church steps, steps that turn into chairs for anyone with throbbing feet. I haven’t perched on enough of these steps. I haven’t seen every church or piazza in the city. Part of what makes an Italian city so appealing to me are these spaces where the goal is not so much in seeing an attraction, but watching that place go by.

For Gelato Research

Being the supposed birthplace of gelato, my time spent in Florence consisted mostly of grabbing gelato as a “snack”. I reasoned if I walked and ate my gelato nightly, it wasn’t so bad for my waistline. The gelato in Florence is some of the best I have ever tasted, so much so that I didn’t mind when the Bacio dripped all over my hands, down to my sandals as I hit the cobblestone streets of this living, breathing, outdoor museum. If I could return to Florence, I would make it my job to taste as many gelato flavors as possible. That’s the sort of spoonful you take for granted when you get back home.

For The Noises

I frequently woke from my Renaissance apartment in Florence to the sound of vespas traveling well beyond any city’s speed limit. The garbage trucks were even more annoying in their loud screeching, and yet, I miss them. Head into any piazza in Florence and there is a song in the air. It might be someone trying to scam you, an Italian man looking for a date or just the sigh of the casual traveler seeing Brunelleschi’s dome for the first time. You can’t recreate the noises of a city and Florence has her own. Music, yelling, traffic, Italian, I will gladly experience the noises of the city again if given the chance.

For The Indoor and Outdoor Art

A lifetime could be spent exploring the works inside and out of Florence. From strolling through Renaissance sculpture in Piazza Signoria to marveling at the Ponte Vecchio under a midnight blue sky, the details of the city require more than one visit. I want to take my search for Florentine treasures inside, over the Vasarian Corridor and down to the Bargello. Florence’s art scene proves, there is always more to see.