Photo of the day: German toilets

by Alex Robertson Textor on

Sometimes, truth be told, it’s the facilities that matter most. The German toilets sign captured here by Flickr user Taylor McConnell in Bingen am Rhein has surely come as a symbol of utter and complete relief to any number of passers-by, perhaps especially to those who might have gone a bit crazy with their lemonade or beer quaffing earlier.

We like signs and we like featuring images of signs as Photos of the Day. Do you have an image of a great sign somewhere? Yes? We thought so. Upload it to the Gadling Group pool on Flickr. If we dig it, we might just select it to be a future Photo of the Day.

Flags without countries

by Sean McLachlan on


Do you recognize this flag? Neither did I. It’s the flag of Lapland. Lapland isn’t a country, but a region in northern Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Russia where the Sámi (Lapps) live. Only Norway recognizes this flag, and it’s flown throughout the country on February 6 to celebrate Sámi National Day.

I discovered this flag in Aberystwyth, Wales, of all places, while walking along the seaside promenade. It was flying proudly in the stiff breeze and caught my attention because I’d never seen it before. Then I noticed a whole line of flags I’d never seen before. A sign explained that because the Welsh so rarely see their flag flying in foreign countries, they decided to fly the flags of various European regions that are seeking autonomy or independence. The display of flags without countries was an interesting lesson in European politics and history. Several are shown in the gallery.

%Gallery-129478%Europe is a patchwork of different languages and cultural groups. Many are subsumed into greater national entities and this causes friction. One of the deepest divides in Europe is between is in Belgium, where Dutch-speaking Flanders in the north and French-speaking Wallonia in the south may very well become two different countries. Luckily this debate has been nonviolent, although not always civil.

Many regions are looking for greater linguistic recognition. France’s strict one-language policy has raised the ire of groups that speak other languages, such as the people of Britanny and Alsace. Some linguistic regions, like Occitania, run across more than one country, further complicating any attempt at greater recognition.

Some independence movements are small, like that in Sardinia, while other are marred by a radical extreme that has undermined the legitimacy of the general movement, like in Corsica and the Basque region.

While none of the flags shown here represent actual nations, they do reflect the feelings of vibrant cultures that enrich Europe. Many of the people who fly these flags probably realize they won’t ever see true independence, and some may not even want it. They fly these flags to show the world who they are. And you never know, when the monument was set up in Aberystwyth, it included the flags of Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, and they’re real nations now!

If you’re interested in flags, check out the amazing Flags of the World website for lots more.

Knocked up abroad: the baby-friendly difference

by Meg Nesterov on

Me in Istanbul on Mother’s Day, 7 months pregnant, with Dalin baby product mascot

Just over two weeks ago, I made the leap from pregnant American in Istanbul to expat with child. My decision to have my first baby in a foreign country has been met with reactions from friends and strangers ranging from surprise and curiosity to outright disapproval. The transition to new parenthood is a strange and challenging time for nearly everyone, but living in a country that respects pregnant women and worships babies has made all the difference. While baby and child bans are being considered in many places from travel companies like Malaysia Airlines to American restaurants, Turkey remains one big baby-friendly country.


On the surface, Istanbul is not an easy place with a baby. The city is crowded, traffic is terrible and taxi drivers will barely pause to let you run across the street, and the sidewalks are a mini Olympics for a stroller with few ramps, cracked pavement, uneven cobblestones, and endless hills. There’s not many green spaces or parks, and for older children, few museums or activities designed for or appealing to kids. It’s the people that make the city welcoming to children. I can’t walk down the street without a chorus of “Maşallah” (bless you) and “çok güzel” (how cute!). Crowds form around us in stores of people wanting to kiss the baby, ask questions about her, and give me advice (this is when my limited Turkish is a blessing and I can just smile and nod). Waiters in restaurants coo over her and offer to hold her when I go to the bathroom (note: I’m hyper-aware of being a disturbance for other diners and will always take her out if she starts to fuss). As much as she is adored, the feedback isn’t always positive. Some older Turks don’t believe young babies should be out in public and think mothers should follow the custom of staying in the house for the first 40 days (our pediatrician says it’s fine to go out and we’ve taken her places nearly every day since she was born). Despite the current 100 degree heat, I’m warned against holding the baby near a fan, in air conditioning or even in front of the refrigerated case in the grocery store, lest she catch a draft.
Even before the baby arrived, Turks go above and beyond to make mothers and babies comfortable. Recently, a Turkish woman told me how she had been heavily pregnant in winter and one day found herself out in the rain, unable to get a taxi home. She began to cry in frustration and a police officer stopped to see if she was okay. She told him she was fine, just wanted to get home, so he approached a nearby taxi with two men inside, kicked them out, and gave the cab to her. I have no doubt that the ousted men were probably understanding and gracious about the situation, and the whole story encapsulates the Turkish experience for me.

In contrast, when I spent a week home in New York at five months pregnant, I was never offered a seat on the subway and struggled like everyone else for a taxi in the rain. Shortly after my visit, I read an article about a proposed official ban on food in the NYC subway (the idea has since been dismissed) with suggestions for other things that should be banned and was shocked to see a few commenters indignantly refuse to give up their seat to pregnant women. They reasoned that pregnancy was a choice and not the responsibility of society or any other passenger to cater to them. While I can understand their viewpoint, it’s so far from the Turkish mentality, I’d be hard pressed to explain it here.

While these are very extreme examples and not necessarily indicative of the average pregnant woman’s experience in New York or Istanbul, they represent two ends of the spectrum in terms of baby- or pregnant-friendliness. Consider this chart of a New York woman’s experience getting seats on the subway; while the overall results aren’t bad (just over 80% of the time she was offered a seat), it’s pretty appalling by Turkish standards. Since I began to show, I could barely step onto a bus or through the metro doors before I was offered at least one seat (and they’ll insist on it, even if I say I’m not traveling far). It’s not just on public transportation: I’ve been offered to cut in line for public bathrooms and even in line for ice cream. Several American cities like Boston and Chicago are considering or enacting rules against strollers (at least open ones) on public transportation to save space and aggravation for other passengers. When I return to New York, I’ll plan on wearing a baby sling or carrier on the subway, especially since few stations have elevators or escalators.

A few weeks before my baby arrived, I was wandering around Cihangir, a neighborhood I’d compare to San Francisco partially due its artsy, cafe-culture vibe, but mainly due to its many hills. My afternoon stroll involved many hikes up steep staircases and near-vertical sidewalks. Each time I’d pass a Turk, he would stop, watch, and wait for me to get to the top and once he saw I was okay and not about to pass out or go into labor, he’d continue on his way. Last week, I battled the same hills with a stroller and was helped by Turkish men on nearly every corner and curb.

So what makes Istanbul such a welcoming city for little ones while New York remains hostile? It’s hardly a small town, Istanbul’s official population of 13 million is nearly double that of New York and the high density doesn’t make it much less crowded. It could be the volume of children, Turkey’s birth rate is nearly double that of many western European countries and significantly higher than the United States. I asked on Twitter about what countries travelers have found to be the most baby-friendly and most hostile, and nearly all of the positive experiences were in European and Latin American countries. Writer Anita Bulan put it well when she noted that in these baby-friendly countries, kids are seen as a part of life and allowed to participate in it. I’ve seen babies out late at night with their parents in Argentina, young children at fancy restaurants in Italy, and toddlers in museums in Spain. I’ve also seen hardly any tantrums in these places. I haven’t figured out their secret yet, but I imagine it has to do with exposing them to real life from an early age. Few restaurants in Istanbul have a kid’s menu but nearly every place will happily provide something appealing to a child, even if it’s not on the menu. If a baby cries, the parents as well as strangers will quickly comfort him and return to their meal practically before anyone else can notice.

This week I applied for my baby’s first passport and am planning travel in Europe and home to the US in the next few months. I’m not sure what to expect in each place, we might continue to be treated like rock stars in Europe and get dirty looks in America, or the reverse. I’m hoping my past travel experience helps me navigate airports and new cities but I’m aware of how a little one will slow me down and make me think ten steps ahead. My baby won’t remember these early trips or appreciate new places, but I hope that kindly strangers and a well-used passport for my child will make me a better mother and traveler.

Vera Alcazar Nesterov was born July 12 in Istanbul. Read her about her travels before birth and pregnancy in a foreign country in past Knocked up Abroad posts.

Tossa de Mar: Spain’s charming little coastal secret

by Kyle Ellison on

The streets are curiously empty for this time of night. After all, this is Spain, land of the 10:30pm appetizer and bordering-on-midnight entree. Though only 9:45, I realize I’m the lone pedestrian wandering these ancient streets. With a cobbled staircase beneath me and imposing stone walls rising on each side, the swath of stars overhead reminds me that I’m not in Roses, or Lloret de Mar. Though not far from here, their festive downtown lights have extinguished the likelihood of strolling beneath any stars.

Instead, I find myself in a deserted corner of a Catalunyan fishing village that has avoided the golf courses, high-rises, and thumping seaside discotecas — one of the few towns that still deserves to sit along a stretch of coastline locally known as “The Wild Coast”. As I continue my solo stroll amongst the streets of the Roman fortress — the last of its kind along the Catalan coast — the dark, empty one-room homes remind me that after 800 years of being in existence, the novelty of wandering these medieval streets has most likely started to fade.

While much of Spain’s Costa Brava — the rocky stretch of coastline that extends from Barcelona to the French border — has fallen prey to over development, somehow the little fishing village of Tossa de Mar has managed to cling to its humble roots and old world charm.

Cozying up to a table for two after my late-night stroll of the fortress, the photographs adorning the walls of the tucked-away cafe point towards the pride Tossa residents hold for the town’s past: black and white images of salty Spanish fisherman showing off oversized tuna that barely fit in their wooden rowboats, women and children gathered on the beach to gawk in excitement at the record-setting catch. In this eight table cafe that’s squeezed into the narrow alleyway of the village’s Old Town-the Vila Vella-the steaming mound of fish-laden paella that appears next to my jarra of sangria is proof enough that there are still a few fish left in the sea.

While the seafood dish and the night time stroll contribute to the town’s charm, there’s much more to Tossa de Mar than simply fish and forts. Within the town itself are three different sandy beaches, their pebbly shores home to far more Speedos and far less bikini tops than some of us may be used to. Gratuitous public nudity aside, the beaches of Tossa de Mar back directly up to the azure Mediterranean waters where children bathe and spearfishermen still hunt in protected, rocky coves. For those wanting to explore the bottom half of the Mediterranean seascape, Tossa de Mar offers some of the best scuba diving found anywhere along the Iberian coast, with various PADI dive shops scattered across the shimmering waterfront.

Back on the rooftop of my $40/night villa, I pour myself a glass of local Crianza wine and again turn my attention to the lights shining on the seven towers of the stoic Roman fort. From this perch, I can also see the top of the pinnacles that form the town’s best dive spot–Sa Banyera–bathed in the gentle moonlight; my one-room accommodation conveniently wedged between the fortress and the beach.

While Tossa still sees its fair amount of leisurely, family-minded tourists in the warmer summer months, in the shoulder months of April and September incredible budget deals can be found at local pensiones that sit silently in the recesses of the old town. I was drawn into this particular establishment by an aging Catalan grandmother standing in the mid-morning shade sweeping her front doorstep with a broom that rivaled her in age. Though the selling point was the location, what sealed the deal was her spirited laugh and genuine smile.

The next morning I would encounter the woman again, this time on the white-washed rooftop as she hung the sheets out to dry in the sun, all the while shooshing away a pair of pesky seagulls. In a combination of Catalan and broken English, she asks if we are enjoying our stay in Tossa de Mar.

“Claro” I reply, my Castillian Spanish reflecting my poor grasp of the regional Catalonia dialect.

“Me too” comes her simple reply. “Me too”.

Istria and the Unintentional Search of the Next Tuscany

by David Farley on
In a way it’s no surprise that Istria, a heart-shaped peninsula in northwestern Croatia, is regularly called “the Next Tuscany.”

Long under the rule of the Venetian Republic and, more recently, occupied by Mussolini’s Italy, the Adriatic’s largest peninsula has a decidedly Italian feel. In addition to the 11% Italian minority, nearly all Istrians-especially along the coast-are fluent Italian speakers. New York chef/restaurateur and Italian cuisine promoter, Lidia Bastianich, hails form just outside of Pula, a town on the southern tip of the peninsula.

In the last decade, though, there’s been an invasion of foreign homebuyers as well as journalists focusing on the region’s many foodie signifiers: the white truffles! The wild seasonal ingredients! Hence “the next Tuscany.” But is it? Or is this label just a lazy travel writing cliché? Maybe now that Croatia has recently been invited to join the European Union, travelers will start disassociate it with that over-romanticized region in central Italy. I set out to find the answer.

Well, not really. I actually made an impromptu trip to Istria for one specific reason. I wanted to eat at one of the best restaurants in Croatia, an eatery that is way overlooked by the traveling food-loving community. Valsabbion. The restaurant isn’t unknown, but given the high quality modernist cuisine coming from this spot and the fact that you’ll pay less than half you would have at elBulli in Spain, Valsabbion deserves more recognition. The drive from Venice would take me through Istria and at last, I thought, I can see what all the truffle-scented fuss was all about. It would be an unintentional search for the next Tuscany.

Besides, I was in Venice and had a rental car for the day and wanted to go on a drive. I pulled out of Venice, hungry and excited, and followed the signs to Trieste. When I crossed the border from Italy into diminutive Slovenia a few conspicuous changes took place: prices drop by a third and vowels vanished from words (signs in my rearview mirror for Trieste, the Italian border town, for example, became “Trst”). The coast of Slovenia, a short drive from the border (and about three hours driving from Venice), is only 30 miles long, but it packs a cultural and aesthetically pleasing punch. Tightly clenched Koper and Izola, perched out on city block-long peninsulas, are pretty enough, but I kept driving. The same with Piran, a compact seaside town.


The 75-mile drive to Rovinj took me across the Slovenian-Croatian border. The guards insisted on speaking Croatian to me, asking repeatedly in Croatian where I was from. When he finally asked in English, I answered and then he began laughing. “Is this the next Tuscany? I asked. The guard stopped laughing and pointed back toward Italy. “Tuscany, that way,” he said.

It’s impossible to not be dazzled by Rovinj (pictured), the best preserved town on the peninsula. Rovinj is a hilly and tightly packed cluster of Gothic structures and smooth cobbled pedestrian streets that was, a century and a half ago, an island (today a long narrow peninsula connects it to the mainland).

But, with my stomach rumbling and the sun setting, I drove on toward Pula, Istria’s largest town (with a population of 65,000). When I got there, I briefly stopped to gawk at the almost perfectly preserved Roman amphitheater that’s plopped in the middle of the city, the sixth largest in the world (Rome’s Coliseum is the first), an arena that could once accommodate 20,000 blood-thirsty spectators. I took a few glances around the Old Town, where there’s a curious combination of architectural styles (imagine: Gothic meets Fascist- and Socialist-era structures).

And then finally, at last, I made my way to Valsabbion. And how was the dinner? Was it unforgettable? The only thing I won’t forget was the sign on the door informing me the restaurant was closed for the month (it was February). I lost out on eating at one of Europe’s great underrated restaurants. At the same time I missed seeing the coastal towns of Istria. Travel fail, indeed.

Oh, but at a gourmet food shop in Pula a woman convinced me to buy some of those truffles that always get mentioned in travel articles about Istria. “Istrian truffles,” she kept saying. “Is this the next Tuscany?” I asked.

She stared back at me for a long second and said: “This is Istria. No Tuscany. Never.”

That’s probably as satisfying an answer as I’ll ever get.