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Michael Valenti Cycling Art

Welcome to the largest collection of Cycling Art prints and Cycling Art Originals in the world from one artist, Michael Valenti. With over 100 unique images from The Tour de France, Giro d’Italia, Vuelta to famous faces and places in the world of cycling. All in one store, all by one artist. You’re sure to find the right painting or print for your style. Vive le Velo!

Watercolor Prints

Now you can find your favorite Cycling Watercolors from my poster collection without the type. Each is carefully printed to look and feel as close to the original watercolor as possible. Explore them now.

New Original Paintings

Every day that I paint or draw is an opportunity to share my love and passion for cycling with the very dedicated and generous people that follow my work. For them, I am extremely grateful . -Michael

“My bike can take me anywhere, but my pen will take me everywhere”

Creating unique vintage travel style bicycle posters, with a passion for cycling Michael Valenti travels the world chasing the Peloton for inspiration. Drawing and painting on location at the Tour de France or just around the corner from his studio near Chicago, there’s alway fresh exciting new work to see.

Follow along and fill your home with cycling wall art, canvas cycling prints and bicycle posters. Or commission a painting of your own adventures! Vive le Velo!

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A massive week. Training for the Duchenne Dash is going very well, I’m still hitting all my mileage goals, slowly but I’m getting the … Read More

All I can do is as much training as possible. At the moment that means about 160 miles a week, two days riding, two … Read More

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Design your own trail map, premium photographic collection, shop mountain bike posters, turn any sports photo into artwork, mountain bike trail art prints.

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Run by husband and wife team Helen & Aaron trailmaps.com  combines years of riding experience with award winning design skills, to create stunning pieces of original artwork to remind you of your favourite journeys and inspire your next one. Choose from our range of  mountain bike trails ,  road cycling climbs , or  create your own personalised art print .

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Biking the Art to Heart Trail (NC Museum of Art – Downtown Raleigh)

If you love exploring different areas of Raleigh on bike rides and greenway trails, we thoroughly enjoyed biking the 6-mile Art to Heart Trail on Saturday as a family with pit stops for coffee and then lunch and drinks in Downtown Raleigh.

We love how bike friendly and walkable Raleigh is, and one of the cool things about living in Raleigh is the Capital Area Greenway Trail System which is one of the most extensive greenway systems in the USA with 104 miles of trails and 28 individual routes . 

What is the Art to Heart Trail?

The Art to Heart Trail is a point-to-point trail that connects the North Carolina Museum of Art (NCMA) to the heart of Downtown Raleigh . This trail begins at the NCMA which is the state’s premiere collection of art, situated within a 164-acre sculpture park.

This 6-mile trail is a short segment of the larger East Coast Greenway, a developing trail system linking major cities of the eastern Seaboard between Canada and Key West – totaling 2,900 miles! 

The North Carolina Museum of Art is one of the most popular Raleigh museums and admission to the Museum’s permanent collection and outdoor Museum Park is FREE – parking is also free!

Before starting the bike ride to downtown, consider taking a stroll through the Ann and Jim Goodnight Museum Park. There’s a paved trail lined with outdoor art featuring more than a dozen commissioned works of art.

This trail then connects to the greenway system that takes you to downtown!

Biking the Art to Heart Trail

Keep in mind that the Art to Heart Trail is NOT a loop.  You can of course bike one way in to downtown and then back again, but we decided to stay downtown for drinks and lunch so I (Craig) caught an Uber back from downtown to pick up our car from the museum car park then drive back into the city to meet up with the others.

The 6 mile paved trail starts by winding its way through the museum’s 164-acre park, passes behind Meredith College, cuts through the main campus at North Carolina State University , passes by Pullen Park , through Boylan Heights, then finishes in the heart of the city just outside of the Duke Energy Center for the Performing Arts – or wherever your heart desires (pardon the pun).

This trail proved to be one of the best kid-friendly Raleigh trails vfor us as a family to get outside and explore unique areas and neighborhoods of Raleigh whilst passing through parks, campuses, and downtown neighborhoods. 

Along the trail there’s a good mixture of flat trail and some small inclines, bridges to cross, tunnels to go through, and lovely tree lined streets and nature areas.

Art to Heart Trail Video

Reedy creek trail at ncma..

Once you leave the grounds of the NCMA you’ll pick up the Reedy Creek Trail. Even though we did this on a Saturday, and it was a lovely 77 degrees out in November, it was not too crowded and the trail is easy to navigate past other bikers or joggers. 

You take the bridge over US-440 and then through a tunnel under Wade Avenue and keep following the trail that wraps around the outside of Meredith College .

Coffee Break

At the entrance gates to Meredith College on Hillsborough Street, across the road is Lucky Tree , one of our favorite coffee shops in Raleigh .  

Although this stop fairly early on in the bike ride, we were on a leisurely pace and wanted to stop in for a coffee, a bite to eat and a bathroom break.

Lucky Tree is a bit of a hidden gem in Raleigh being slightly out of the heart of downtown, but it’s next to the popular Brickhouse Sports Bar and Raleigh Brewing , so if you want a beer instead, you have options!

This coffee shop offers a wide selection of coffee options, and great vegan and gluten free bakery goods. The other cool thing is it doubles as a local art and gift shop. We grabbed a latte and chocolate chip and banana nut muffins.

After our 30-minute break, we jumped back on our bikes and back on the Reedy Creek Trail and past the Athletic Field at Meredith College. 

Intersection of Hillsborough & Gorman Streets

We then came to the intersection of Hillsborough and Gorman. Once here, you go over the crosswalk and then take a RIGHT on Gorman St and head towards Sullivan Drive. 

When going down Gorman St you’ll bike over another bridge over some train tracks and then to Sullivan Drive. 

Take a LEFT on Sullivan Drive and pick up the Rocky Branch Greenway.

Sullivan Drive and Rocky Branch Greenway takes you through NC State University’s North Campus passing Miller Fields and behind Carmichael Gymnasium. Follow the signs for Pullen Park and you’ll pass under a tunnel (under Pullen Rd), and then past Pullen Park on your left that runs parallel to Western Blvd until you come to Ashe Ave.

When you get to Ashe Ave , take a LEFT and bike for a short distance until you get to the entrance gates to Pullen Park. Cross the road here and continue along Rocky Branch Trail (parallel to Western Blvd). 

Stay on the greenway trail until you get to W. Cabarrus St and follow this street into the Historic Boylan Heights neighborhood , one of the best neighborhoods in Raleigh . 

Then take a RIGHT on W. Lenior St which takes down into the heart of the city and to the “unofficial” end at the Duke Energy Center for the Performing Arts.

As mentioned, we decided to go for drinks at one of our favorite breweries and eateries in Raleigh, Wye Hill Kitchen & Brewing , which is in the Boylan Heights neighborhood, so instead of taking a right on W. Lenior we continued through and took a LEFT on S. Boylan Ave , across Boylan Bridge to Wye Hill. 

We also continued on to the Glenwood South District as they were hosting “Dine Out Downtown” where they close off the street to cars and have outdoor dining in the street and had burgers and wings at the Hibernian Irish Pub .

When you visit Raleigh or if you live here like us, I highly recommend you grab your bikes (or walking shoes) and do this trail as it’s one of the best bike trails in Raleigh. 

And whether you bike it or even walk it, there’s plenty of nearby food and drink options along Hillsborough Street and all the best places to eat in downtown Raleigh at the finish.

• Download a map of the Art to Heart trail here .
• You can download the current Raleigh greenway trail map here .

About The Author

Craig Makepeace

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The Police State Will Kill Travel: Lap One Around Morocco

By Evan Christenson

Contributing Editor

In part one of this thrilling tale, Evan Christenson returns to Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains to finish a ride that left his bike broken and in the back of a taxi five years ago. This time, he tries to evade police and makes new friends along the way. While on the ride, he contemplates the point of travel and finds a way to give back. Find his story and a spectacular set of photos here…

PUBLISHED May 17, 2024

He limps with an eager gait as we push away the battered iron door and crouch under its bent frame. Chickens flutter from his feet, and the dust swirls in the feathers. Their wormy, withering shit squishes into my crooked and rusty cleats. I follow Mohammed into the darkness. I am new here, a foreigner, helpless, and willing to drift wherever I’m guided. I’m unsure of where we’re going, unsure of who he is, unsure of everything in this squiggle-letter world.

Mohammed makes a suckling motion, holding his nipple and craning his neck, before taking me to this mystery building—a lonely pile of rocks and mud—a donkey tied up and braying under the olive trees. I’d been riding for less than an hour into this new world when he invited me inside for tea. I was hoping to begin the push into the mountains that day. But I decided with his proposal that my new rule would be to always say yes to tea. Quickly, I’ll grow sick of it.

We bend under another door, and the strong North African sun filters through the soft North African dust. The room is cast orange; the mud walls, the dirt floor, the cut and splayed oil drum roof. The stale air weighs like the lid of a casket. More chickens shuffle from our feet and into the dark corners. Gas canisters, plastic water bottles, a cup of soup, and a pot of tea sit on a ledge. Not much else. Blankets and rugs and pillows are tangled in the center of this shrine to sustenance, to necessities, to sobriety. And there she is, lying just there, wrapped up in more blankets: a delicate cobbling of calloused and wrinkled skin and old clothes. 

She groans as she sits up. Mohammed motions me closer to his mother. He counts 98 with his hands, and she eagerly offers me her hand to kiss and another glass of hot, syrupy tea. The three of us sit there, on cold plastic chairs, in a warm, dusty room, just an arm’s length away, staring and giggling and embracing our differences. It’s impossible not to acknowledge them. The light falls upon her face from the doorway and reflects off her two plummeting blue eyes staring back at me. Her wet smile flashes a mouth void of teeth. Her body struggles to move, but her eyes dart with energy. She talks with her son, fast, fluid and low. They seem to understand each other before the words come out—nodding in agreement, flashing glances, and waving hands. I stare at the scene before me, for it is not real. It is too foreign to understand. We are too different to be here together. I suppose that’s precisely why I’ve come. 

“The Berber people do not like to be photographed,” I remember reading on some touristy blog before my first time in Morocco. I left my camera down most of the time on that trip, afraid to embrace the possibility of offense. But, now, on my second visit, her fragility in that moment was so strikingly beautiful and fleeting that I felt the need to photograph it. So, after another hot and syrupy tea with Fadmah, I stomach the question, and I brave the inevitable “no.”

Instead, Fadmah nods excitedly, takes out her headscarf, pats down her blanket, sits up, and crosses her arms. She uncrosses them. She giggles. She faces me for her photograph. I kneel in front of her, her son to my left, her squared on the ledge in front, and I put the black metal camera between us. I turn the right dial down to expose for her face, and it comes alive in the tiny electronic screen squished against my right eye. I press the smooth black button, the shutter falls, and the great glass barrier is shattered between us. My heart flutters, and my stomach plummets. 

Something has changed. This no longer feels right. Photographing people is one of my favorite things to do. Lately, however, I’ve been struggling more and more with the ethics of the whole enterprise. These dynamics feel murky at best and colonial and objectifying at worst. I shoot my photos, shake Fadmah’s hand, kiss it, say thank you, and wave goodbye. I get back on my bicycle, and I ride back down the road and off into the mountains. The small mud house with the olive trees and the donkey gets smaller. A new one appears up the road. And my mind begins to race. 

What am I doing here? Who am I to steal from this poor old woman? Why, when I cross paths with her complex and beautiful life, at the very tender end of it—not understanding anything about her, about what she has done and what she believes, where she has gone, and what she has overcome—do I feel entitled to take this moment? And most importantly, to leave with it, keeping it for myself, for my hard drive, and for my “followers?” What about her?

I ride on and play football with some kids. I kick rocks off the cliff. I talk with a guy on a motorcycle about immigration. He tells me it costs $5,000 to get smuggled into Europe. He’s trying to raise the money now. For short spurts, kids join me and we do wheelies before they inevitably get tired and turn around. I ride further alone, and I slowly climb higher and higher back into the Atlas, back down this familiar road, shocked at how little I remember, shocked by how different it all feels.

As the mountains yearn for the clouds and the afternoon sun begins to yellow, I come across a man lying on the ground. He’s selling apples on the roadside with a broken brass scale and a tattered piece of cardboard blocking the sun. The skin of his face is wrinkled and battered, and the web of creases spiderwebbing from his eyes to his lips dances as he laughs. His body is long and straight, and his ears stick up like satellites. He lies in the dirt with his yellow headscarf and dusty brown tunic and stares up at me. He gives me some apples, and we eat them together. He then brings me across the street and into his home for tea, and that same deep urge to photograph this strange and beautiful human has returned. 

There was a certain disappointment I clung to when I left these mountains five years ago. Five years ago, I pedaled up this same road as fast as I could, trying to catch a flight to get home and back to class. I naively flew from Los Angeles to Morocco for spring break because I had no concept of sustainability or personal accountability and even less knowledge of the people and the places I was going to see. I went to Morocco back then because it seemed like an exotic and exciting challenge, and that’s what I cared about for a long time.

“Could I ride from Lisbon to Marrakech?” I asked myself. But of course I could. A bit of fitness and a credit card made that ride pretty easy. In the greater context of life, pedaling circles is rather simple for many of us. I rode 200 kilometers a day because I was still a bike racer, and I thought riding a bike meant entirely that: riding the bicycle as much and as fast as possible. I rode all day because I didn’t realize you could play soccer with the kids on the roadside, go into a home for tea, help an old lady carry a bundle of hay, or walk through a market and just talk to people. The roadside didn’t occur to me. It was simply a mirage, a two-dimensional world I had no agency to interact with. I was a cyclist . I came here to cycle. 

But the underlying truth was that I was scared. I was scared of the country, with its smoking cars and burning trash and the squiggly letters and the weird churches that sang Allahu Akbar at 6 a.m. According to television, the Arab world was the enemy. I was a suburban kid, and I hadn’t yet learned that there was always more to a story than what’s portrayed on TV. Riding fast was a way to insulate myself from the seemingly dangerous world on the roadside and in the hills. Riding fast was my security. I booked an Airbnb from my Airbnb in the morning and rode until I got there in the evening. Sure, it was exciting. For a while, it even made for a half-decent story. But it missed the whole point. I should’ve just ridden to Vegas.

So, I’ve come back five years later—after enough travel to dull that plaguing fear—to try to finish the ride I couldn’t finish the first time. I double-flatted on this road into the Atlas, and I coincidentally didn’t have the tools to fix it at the time, so I called a taxi and got a ride out. And I thought that returning here with some tougher tires, a tool kit, a tent, and a stove would make for a great story. Look at me, conquering the land that once beat me. I did it! But that nagging thought stayed rumbling in my mind as I drank tea in the man’s home and as he poured another and another.

What am I really doing there? I yearned to photograph his weathered face. Those wrinkles alone told a beautiful story. His warm smile, his firm handshake, hup-huppy laugh, and staccato wordplay fascinated me. And mostly, I just wanted to understand him a bit more. I wanted to do something more than just pedal circles and kick rocks. I looked at his bare, mud walls, at his grandchildren playing in the trees, and at his daughter bending over the fire. I listened to their goats treading on the rocks and feeding from the trees and the motorcycles funneling down the canyon road. I set down my glass and said, “I’ll be back.” And I got back on my bike, turned around, and rode back down the way I came.

Satellite dishes and smartphones and heavy machinery. The King and migration and TikTok. With the earthquake and COVID, climate change and ingressing technology, these mountains have already noticeably changed in the short time since I was last here. This road into the mountains was almost all dirt five years ago, and now, it’s almost all paved. Morocco has been going through a six-month drought. Olive oil prices have tripled. The reservoir I previously saw full is now nearly empty. Of course, there are a dozen new golf resorts in the valley. And technology has permeated and will continue to permeate and disrupt life here in the mountains. The youth will move to the big cities, and these newly paved roads will lead to more mixing of culture, people, and goods—for better and worse. 

I thought of this rapidly changing world and the strong, gentle, and beautiful people I’d met. I thought of their families and their communities and of all their impermanence. I thought of the photos I carry in my wallet to remind me of home. The Polaroid of my sister and my mother’s high school portrait, creased and bleached from the long years I’ve leaned on them. I thought of that photo of Fadmah, of the pride in her son Mohamed when we pushed into her dark room, and I thought how they should have that photo. How this one nice picture to me, in fact, means a lot more to them. And the man I was having tea with, who was also in his 90s, I thought his family should have a nice photo of him too. Because a photograph says, “I was here. I looked like this. This was my life.” A photograph is a pin nailed into the blowing sands of life. And I think that with this world accelerating in so many new directions, faster and faster still, this simple statement is an increasingly important one to make. 

So I rode back to the city, and I had those photos printed. I found a translator and had several phrases translated into Tamazight to explain my idea. I’ll ride this loop and photograph the people that want to be photographed. Families and children and homes. Whoever shows me love on my ride. Whoever destiny crosses into my path. And then I’ll ride the loop again, and I’ll give them back their photos—for their families, for themselves, for the sake of time and the preservation of history, and maybe partly for my own guilt, too. 

I ride back into the mountain, and I see Mohammed. He didn’t expect to see me again, and he stops washing his dishes, towels off his hands, and he gives me a hug. I’m nervous and excited, and I flounder in my framebag and pull out the print of his mother sitting upright in her fragility, staring straight into my camera, this metal box of witness. He takes it gently, and he holds it, and he goes quiet. His deep blue eyes well up with tears, both crying and smiling while holding this moment. And I bring another photo to Fadmah, the other one, the one of her and her son holding each other, and her small, fragile body lets out a piercing shriek, and she kisses my hands, and she kisses the photo, and she kisses my hands again.

Mohamed pins it to his wall. There is nothing else there, so alone it sits in the center. We sit down to make breakfast together, and while I chop the vegetables, I catch him staring up at the photo, looking quietly with that same pride I remembered from the day prior. I feel meager about this project when I turn around and set out. After all, it’s just a photograph. A photograph doesn’t cure disease or put food on the table. It doesn’t create jobs or bring rain. But after this first photo trial run, after Mohammed’s tears and Fadmah’s kisses, I feel more than meager. I feel excited. I push off and head back to the High Atlas with my spirits high and my pocket full of phrases. I set off excited to shoot photos. But I also set off unsure if anyone else will actually want them. 

I ride on and learn a lot on this first loop. I learn you are not supposed to eat with your left hand. You should eat dates in numbers of three, five, or seven. Men knock on doors twice. Women knock three times. Rafisa is eaten on new years, but people don’t really celebrate it. There are just three big parties in everyone’s life: birth, marriage, and death. I learn that dinosaurs used to roam here and that they’ve dug up entire skeletons fossilized in these mountains. These mountains all used to be under water, and quite often you can find fossils of little sea crabs in the shale. I learn how to weave carpets, make olive oil, and crack the nuts of the oak trees and eat their bitter insides.

Fridays are the holy day, and you should go to the mosque, pray, take your rest, eat couscous with whoever shows up, and then go to the cafe. Don’t really talk religion, though. Football is holy. And to many Moroccans, Hakimi is the pope. The further north you go, the more they like Barcelona instead of Real Madrid, but it must always be asked. The djlaba can be worn both formally and informally, but it means you must ride the donkey side-saddle. French is dying, and the youth are learning English. Less colonial. Better memes. I tell one 10-year-old kid I live in California, and he replies, “Isn’t that where all the crackheads live?” I didn’t see that one coming. 

I learn Derijah, I learn Teshelhit. I learn a Moroccan hammam is not a gentle enterprise, and in fact, it really hurts when the old men in their wet boxers scrape your skin raw with a fist of olive oil sap and a glove of hard bristles. I also learn you should always kiss the old ladies’ hands first. You shake a younger woman’s hand and then kiss your own hand. With men, you shake hands and pat your chest. The introduction is a very important part of Amazigh culture. You must always ask:

“How are you?” “Good. How are you?” “Good.” “Thanks be to Allah.” “Thanks be to Allah.”

After saying all this in Teshelhit, I’m immediately welcomed into homes. “You speak Berber!” a lot of people shout. They’re surprised to see a foreigner spend the time to learn a bit of their language, and I’m just as surprised as them that this is a radical idea. Now, here, so far away, alone in someone else’s world, it feels like the least I can do. Why come so far if we’re not going to at least pay attention to one another?

In the mountains, I’m brought into dozens of homes. Quickly, I’m surprised by how excited people are to be photographed. Some homes I can’t get out of without shooting 10 or 20 photos. “Me! Me! Me!” the kids shout. Facebook friends and selfies and WhatsApp numbers. Moms want photos with their children. Children want photos of themselves, looking serious, looking cool. Quickly, I become a family portrait photographer on a bicycle, but I suppose that’s what I set out for.

I think back to that piece of internet travel blog advice a lot after this project begins to take off. How “the Berber people don’t like to be photographed.” But I quickly see how wrong that was. First, you’re not supposed to use the word Berber, as it’s derived from the word Barbarian . The actual word is Amazigh . Second, it treats the 10 million Indigenous people here as a unit, not acknowledging someone’s agency and unique perspective of their own right to be or not to be photographed. And finally, of course someone doesn’t want a random stranger running up and snapping a picture and running away with it. Who would?

About two weeks into my loop, everything is going great. I’ve already got 30 photos to give out, I’ve scored 12 goals in five roadside soccer games and gone in for tea a dozen or so times. I have a string of WhatsApp conversations in Arabic that I can’t understand, and at least 50 kids have tried (and failed) to ride my bike. Then, I meet a man on a motorcycle. He asks the usual. Where are you going? Where are you from? How much did your bicycle cost? Want to trade?? He-he-he. And for a whole day, we leapfrog on the one small dirt road through the canyon. He takes great care to know where I’m sleeping that night.

And then, the next day, I run into him again, and he asks the same questions. And the next day he shows up when I’m playing soccer with some kids. “Why are you playing with these kids? They’re in poverty,” he says. He waits for me to finish my game and rides with me further down the road. Two boys join me on their bikes, and we all ride together. We crest the hill and see black storm clouds rolling in. The wind picks up, the temperature drops, and snow begins to fall—a brilliant white atop the harsh ridges of the thirsty red clay. The boys invite me to their home to wait out the storm. And the man on the motorcycle says no. “But I don’t know them!” he says. It’s become obvious that the man is from the police, following me and radioing in my progress. But he won’t admit it. I stay with the family anyways and we play football in the snow. Finally, the first snowfall of the year. It feels like a special occasion to be present for. 

The police intensify. I’m followed by various people in unmarked cars, people who won’t always say they’re police, people wearing hoods and talking on their phones. One night, I get pulled out of my campsite and told I have to ride to a hotel, in the dark, over an hour away. I’m followed by men I don’t know. I’m called by my name and told where I can and can’t go. I begin to get paranoid, and I duck into drainages to evade the tails, and I see everyone who stares at me differently. I begin constantly wondering who is police and who is not.

I stop for tea with a family, and the police check them out first. In a market, other police question me and the stranger I’m talking to in front of everyone. I grow frustrated with them. I yell at them. “Leave me alone!” I beg. They tell me it’s for my safety. They continue to repeat this, over and over, as if Morocco isn’t a safe country to be in. As if the two weeks before they started following me, I hadn’t been treated kindly at every interaction.

I was so angry with the police. I wanted to ride slowly, to immerse myself into these mountains, into these homes, to learn this place and try to make real connections. But as soon as the police started following me, I felt ostracized. Because having a police officer constantly looking over my shoulder tells anyone on the roadside to be careful. The police here can be corrupt, and many people fear them. And now I was put on the other team and made an outcast. The police guide me out of people’s homes, out of soccer games with the kids, and out of campsites in the mountains. They guide me toward the hotels and to the tourist traps.

The police want me to take my selfies, buy my trinkets, sleep in nice hotels, and get on my flight back home. They want the four out of five stars experience because tourism is good for the economy, and bad reviews are bad for the bottom line. But real travel is contradictory to tourism. It doesn’t make money for those shitty trinket shops, big hotels, snake charmers and dancing monkeys. And to really travel is to accept risk. It is built on trust, going blindly and willingly into a stranger’s home, holding their crying children, sleeping on their worn carpets, and eating with our hands from the same clay tagine. Trust and travel are the antidote to media. When the world feels overwhelmingly awful, it’s in a stranger’s home that it begins to feel whole again. Trust is something you can’t commodify. It is not a shiny thing to advertise. It doesn’t have reviews on TripAdvisor. Real travel is something you can’t simply buy. You must search it out slowly. Tourism will kill travel. Instagram will kill travel. This police state will kill travel. 

I finish my loop frustrated and sick. I wear a Moroccan coat over my head and hitchhike through the flatlands so the police can’t tail me to my friend’s house, and I begin days of puking as I roll back into his garage. My first two weeks on the road were heaven. I made real friends, shot beautiful photos, and learned real lessons. I felt like I was coming back to this special mountain range and finally doing it right. I felt alive and full. But the police issue put all that in the dark. I was too frustrated to appreciate the landscapes I was pedaling through. Too uncomfortable by my tail to make friends. Too suspicious to even want to.

And so I get back to the city, and I go to meet the police captain. I explain why this is absurd, why it freaks me out, and why it’s unnecessary. And the captain, young, fit, smiley, and joking, he says he totally understands me. He says it won’t happen again. He apologizes. He offers me tea. I’m shocked. After a week of asking a dozen officers to leave me alone, and them all denying it, saying over and over how it’s their orders and it’s “for my safety,” finally, the captain agrees to let me do my own thing. “Oh yeah, I completely understand you.” he says. And just like that, my project has wings again. 

I return to the photo lab in town with a flash drive, and half an hour later the man behind the counter very calmly gives me my stack of photos. There are 46 in total. More than I expected to get, actually. And as I flip through them, I see that whole loop reconnect, one photo at a time. My eyes begin to tear up. Lahcen, Hamza, Mina, Toma. The kasbah, the café, the roadside, the homes. The same loop I rode in just two days the last time I was here, I now spent three weeks on. But those three weeks hold a significant weight in my hands now, each meaningful interaction forever stamped in paper.

In those three weeks, I built real relationships, I made friends, and I listened to stories. Every photo I hold in my hands means something to me and, hopefully, to the person on the other side of the lens when I return. This stack of photographs is the difference between going fast and going slow. And to me, it’s the difference in this trip being worth going to the other side of the world for. 

I go back to my friend’s house to spend another night, still waiting for the food poisoning to settle down. Each night, the whole family sits around the plastic box set TV and watches Al Jazeera. Afterward, the father Zaid and I sit alone and drink tea late into the night. Tonight, he tells me his life story of being the child of an olive farmer up in the mountains, wanting to be a doctor, leaving home and moving to the city to study, and accepting life when he was offered a job as a primary school teacher. He taught French for 30 years in Beni-Mellal, where we sit now, and although it wasn’t his dream, he loved his work. The news crackles in the background. The geese in the garden call out. He pours us another glass of tea, high and arcing, the steam rising and the bubbles bursting as the sweet mint amber splatters on the plastic tablecloth. 

Family is a big part of Moroccan culture. Regularly, I see homes with four generations all living together. Family is organized in the Koran and highly valued in Islam. And Zaid, after leaving the mountains and giving up his dream, has built a beautiful family. His daughters are both in university. His oldest son is going off for a PhD program in France. His youngest son is healthy and kind. They open their home and let me be a part of their family for a week. And that night—another night in the yellow salon with Al Jazeera in the background—I give Zaid the photos I made of his family. He looks at them, thumbing the edges, staring at the faces he’s become so familiar with, and he grows quiet. I look over and see small tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. We sit together with the coverage of the war mumbling in the background. Zaid looks down and he says thank you .

Yes, I felt meager about this project when it first began. But so far, I’m batting 100 percent in making men cry, even in a machismo culture espousing strength and dignity. And that alone feels worth coming here for. Travel is all about meeting people, trusting them, and changing our perspectives. But maybe it can be about changing someone else’s, too.

The police are gone now. Winter is coming to the High Atlas. I have a framebag full of photos to go give out, and so I’ll go finish this route once more. But this time, the right way. I started this ride by asking myself what I’m doing here, and although I’m still not sure, I can tell I’m getting closer. 

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This Nail Shooter Hangs Pictures Right on the First Try

When you admire a particularly great at-home gallery wall — you know, the kind with a bunch of framed pieces hung together just so — on Instagram, you rarely think about the level of care it took to install each piece. Unless you’ve done a gallery wall yourself, that is, and remember the number of holes and uneven patches that live secretly behind your own art.

Take it from me: Gallery-wall hanging is not easy to pull off. I used to hang pictures by hammering a nail into the wall and hoping for the best. Picture-hanging hardware? Why bother! A hammer and any sort of nail, and I was good to go. But when it came to precision, this posed a problem. Nails hammered into the wall at an angle are never at the exact same angle (unless you use picture-hanging hardware), so pictures often end up looking slightly askew and don’t sit flush against the wall. The whole thing looks a bit homemade, and not in a good way.

That was many years ago, before I worked as an interior decorator and understood why the age-old “measure twice, cut once” philosophy can be applied to almost everything. And, most importantly, it was before I knew about the Takker.

A DIY tool that solves all the above issues, the Takker first came to my attention around 2009 when my mother in Ireland produced one from the cupboard to hang a picture. It had made an appearance on Dragons’ Den (the Shark Tank of Ireland) and soon found its way into Woodie’s DIY (the Home Depot of Ireland). The idea behind it was to invent a super-simple way to hang pictures and mirrors up to 22 pounds on drywall, wood, plaster, and aerated concrete block. To date, there’s a Takker in 10 percent of homes on the Emerald Isle.

Here’s how it works: You mark the spot, load some of the included Takks into the rear of the device, and give a satisfying punch to the large round red button, which pushes a Takk firmly and securely into the wall at an ecstatically perfect 90-degree angle. No risk of accidentally hammering your thumb, no loud repetitive banging sounds, no problem. The red button has a fun game-show feeling, as well.

I have always hung things directly on the Takk, but the Takker kit now comes with brass picture hooks, razor hooks, and large plastic hooks that work in tandem with the Takks. I’ve hung pretty much all my art under 22 pounds using the Takker. I’ve hung art at 11 p.m. without risk of disturbing the neighbors, and I’ve used it to hang the aforementioned precise grid gallery wall-art installation, which went fairly well, despite the most uneven walls imaginable.

The Takks themselves resemble pushpins (but smaller), and when you remove one from the wall, it leaves a 1-mm. hole that’s so tiny you can hardly see it, even when you’re standing right there. As someone who perennially prefers white walls, I can attest to the fact that these holes are practically unnoticeable, even with 20/20 vision. (I’ve used the Takker to hang Christmas decorations, leaving barely visible holes when it was time to take them down.) Although the Takks are hypersecure, they actually slide out very easily via an in-built removal slot in the device, so they can be reused. In lazier times, I’ve used a hammer hook to get them out, which leaves a scuff mark on the wall. Will I ever learn? Don’t be like me, your lazy friend; use the Takker slot. It’s there for a reason.

Just note: The Takker works amazing on drywall and wood, but it doesn’t work on exposed brick or exposed concrete block. That said, following the success of the original, the company invented a second version called the Hardwall Takker that can handle brick and even ceramic tile. Amazing! Maybe I’ll test it out. Stay tuned.

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Springtime in Switzerland a revelatory homecoming

Hitting the slopes by skis, board, bike or on foot, less-crowded season an ideal time for a peaceful visit amid exhilarating beauty

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It was a check-the-box trip, one intended to fill our quota to earn my husband possible Swiss citizenship. With dual nationality, I’m fortunate enough to hold the coveted red passport due to my family bloodline.

Having spent my mid-20s in the Alps, I tucked the notion in my mind that, perhaps one day, my husband could also carry one of the world’s most powerful passports.

Easier said than done. After 12 years of marriage, we started with the initial paperwork, followed by an essay (in German) as to why he wanted to become a Swiss citizen. During the process, we delivered a library’s worth of documents, ranging from financial reports to letters of recommendation. Next were in-person interviews at the nearest Swiss consulate, which happened to be in San Francisco. Thus, we flew from our home in San Diego for verbal tests — again, in German. After hours of studying, plus spending thousands in application fees, there was no turning back.

The good news was we passed almost every phase; the bad news was that we hadn’t visited Switzerland enough to prove our allegiance. The fact that the pandemic had closed travel didn’t matter. We still had to make three trips over five years. This meant we were one trip short of, hopefully, waving the white-cross flag.

And so we packed our bags, adopting the mindset that this trip would double as a spring-skiing getaway during our qualifying trial. Seven days would introduce us to the French municipality of Crans-Montana in Valais, and reconnect us with our familiar friend, the resort city of Zermatt in the German-speaking district of Visp.

Swiss International Air Lines, aka SWISS, landed us in Zurich, where we caught a train to our first destination at Crans-Montana. The Swiss Travel System (STS) left little need to rent a car because a Swiss Travel Pass granted us unlimited travel by train, bus and boat.

I had once lived just two hours away in the village of Gstaad, yet there wasn’t too much I knew about Crans-Montana. Now some 20 years later, I returned as the prodigal child, clinging to my roots so I could build new ones.

Although my family tree had branched from Swiss heritage, there still was something purely impartial about the culture. Locals had a deep love for nature, family and order. There was rarely conflict because, frankly, there was nothing to argue about.

Switzerland is a harmonious nation, clichéd for chocolate, cowbells and cheese. Those lures aside, there is a respect for the land and one’s neighbor. We felt it in Crans-Montana, where four municipalities joined forces to unveil a twin-town nirvana in 2017. As recent as it was, the verdant magic started back in 1893 with two besties, Louis Antille and Michel Zufferey.

Together, they climbed from the valley to the mountaintop to open the area’s first hotel, Hôtel du Parc . The region soon gained notoriety from doctors who prescribed a stay for patients in the area’s superior air quality. Later, it sparked interest from the world’s best golfers during the 1983 European Masters.

While it was the sunshine and sky that lured these pioneers, the 1987 World Ski Championships officially put the destination on the map. And now, we were on that map, tracking it with apps wide open for everything it had to offer … starting with Hostellerie du Pas de l’Ours .

This property, a member of the Relais & Châteaux luxury hotel association, had me at sheepskin rugs. I’m a sucker for refined coziness, and the boutique hotel nailed it with in-room fireplaces, heated floors, private Jacuzzis, stone walls and timber-beamed ceilings. Sinking my jet-lagged feet into plush slippers, I exhaled and asked my husband the inevitable question.

“I wonder what property costs here?”

We often do that: escape to a land void of troubles, tasks and to-dos, and wonder if it’s “the place.” Without answering, my husband pulled back the curtains to unveil the moonlit peaks.

He nodded. “I think our dogs would love it here.”

What was not to love?

The ski resort boasted 87 miles of trails, a 10,000-foot summit and $50 lift tickets within walking distance of our chalet. From the top, a chain of peaks pierced through a duvet of clouds, revealing the Valais Alps from the Matterhorn to Mont Blanc.

To get a lay of the land, we hired a ski guide who took us on wide, carving pistes — a ski run of hard-packed snow — and down untouched bowls and along seven-mile runs that made our thighs burn. In rudimentary French, I asked him why there were no people on the mountain. He explained that lift lines and swarmed slopes were basically nonexistent, especially come spring when locals traded skis for hiking boots and snowboards for bikes.

With nearly the whole mountain to ourselves, we pushed pause for lunch at La Cabane des Violettes . This stone mountain hut takes gourmet cuisine to the next level — literally. At an elevation of 7,000 feet, the restaurant serves traditional temptations like croûte au fromage (bubbling cheese toast) and rösti (grated potato cake) with sausage and white asparagus.

Between breakfast croissants and a hearty lunch, you’d think we’d have had our fill of food for the day, but low and behold, we were in wine country. For an introduction to the blends of Valais, we went straight to the source, Cave le Tambourin Winery .

Run by second-generation winemakers Ishmaël and Madeleine Bonvin, the winery popped the cork in 1987. Today, it’s producing over 30,000 bottles of 20 award-winning wines. From the cellar, Madeleine dusted off six bottles, pairing them with platters of local cheeses, cured meats and artisan chocolate to boot.

She credited the Rhône Valley’s Mediterranean climate for part of their success, in this sun-drenched region of 300 wineries producing robust reds, aromatic whites and fruity rosés.

Believe it or not, we had fondue that night, but the fact that we had to work for it justified the gluttonous consumption. At full moon, hiking from the neighboring village of Aminona to Colombire Hamlet is a must. Our guide, Marlène Galletti, who greeted us with snowshoes, hiking poles, headlamps, and a Blue Healer ready to rumble.

A former thriving ski town, Aminona seemed frozen in time, a ghostly relic of its thriving past dating to 1968. Development plans have wavered, and it currently serves as a gateway for hiking, cross country skiing and mountain biking.

From the muddy trailhead, we learned of Marlène’s background as a cheese maker and herbologist. She had traveled the world, sharing homesteading secrets with communities seeking to live off the land. Naturally, I asked her about everything from homemade sunscreen to longevity tinctures, that is, until she pointed toward the horizon.

That single moment silenced us all. A full moon overshadowed the mountains, so pink you’d swear they were blushing. We continued to climb, the quiet only broken by the sound of the snow crunching beneath our crampons.

And then, there it was, Hameau de Colombire — a “Hamlet” of clustered mayens. These traditional stone-and-wooden chalets function as summer homes for farmers who reside upstairs and keep livestock below.

With keys to the kingdom, Marlène opened the door to a mayen and put us to work. Together, the three of us cooked cheese fondue with boiled potatoes, pearl onions and cornichons. After a meal like that, we wished we had selected the “return sledding” option. Instead, we hiked under the moonlight, stopping only once to admire a yellow coltsfoot flower pushing through the snow in determination.

Puncturing the surrounding crust with her pole, Marlène scraped away a layer of snow as if giving the flower space to breathe. There was something remarkable about that moment, a hint of spring beckoning the sprouting seeds to burst forth in a mighty super bloom.

The next two days we hit the slopes, catching first chair and maximizing our time as if someone might shake us from our dream. Population in Crans-Montana supposedly triples from 15,000 come ski season. We didn’t notice. Instead, we picked our lines, marveling that we were making tracks in April.

As much as I’d like to talk about the shopping, it was only while walking along Rue du Prado that I noticed boutiques selling luxury brands like Hermès , Montblanc and Chopard. There are nearly 200 shops rounding out the local attractions of 200+ miles of hiking/biking trails, seven lakes, four golf courses, three museums, 130 restaurants, 12 historical villages and four waterfalls. But who’s counting numbers — or calories — when you can eat at mountain huts and Michelin-starred restaurants?

Alas, we indulged again, this time at Le Bistrot des Ours in the “cellar” of our hotel. With a mountain-inspired menu courtesy of Franck Reynaud, the Michelin-starred chef uses only Swiss ingredients in his French-Mediterranean cuisine.

If time allowed, we would have dined there again … with a smattering of paragliding, dog sledding, chocolate tasting, yak hiking and maybe even heliskiing. Needless to say, we weren’t ready to leave Crans-Montana, but Zermatt (and budget) had us locked in for Part 2 of the trip.

From our hotel, we caught a morning bus to Sion, followed by a train to Visp. Peppering a patchwork of fields and vineyards were darling chalets, as perfect as if God had sprinkled cuckoo clocks from heaven.

Going from French to German required some brain activation. Suddenly with that first greeting of “Grüezi,” I felt like I was home. It was my fourth trip to Zermatt, but still, the fact that village travel was by foot, bike or electric taxi was remarkable. Until the 1980s, the vehicle-free village of Zermatt relied on horse-drawn carriages. Despite these changes, the sound of clopping on cobblestone could still be heard echoing through the narrow streets of “Hinterdorf.”

Dating back to the 16th century, this historic zone has barns and stables constructed from larch trees in the traditional style, balancing on stilts with slate roofs, rickety stepladders and timber-cornered notching. At its center is a memorial fountain paying tribute to Ulrich Inderbinen, who climbed the Matterhorn 370 times.

We, too, would be approaching that mountain, or rather, its base via the comfort of a chairlift. Getting there was easy, with direct access to the slopes from Hotel Cervo . What Pas de l’Ours was to elegance, Cervo was to design.

Remodeled in 2020, the stylish property has just 54 rooms housed within seven chalets. With tweed, wool and leather textiles, our room teased hipster-huntsman-meets-polished-mountaineer. Private ski lockers, an “honesty bar,” live DJ and a climbing wall checked all the boxes.

Beauty was in the details, with medicine bottles filled with dried flowers below deer mounts reminding us where we were. Oh, and the ice bath helped solidify that fact — a chilly awakening after the sauna, steam bath and relaxation yurt. This mountain ashram was the main draw for my husband, while its proximity to the slopes had me on speed dial.

From our hotel, an elevator took us through the mountain to the starting point of Europe’s highest ski resort. Rails, escalators, gondolas and chairlifts revealed a mind-blowing feat of engineering and infrastructure that covered 324 miles across two countries. As we skied our way toward Italy, I asked my husband if we needed our passports.

With that question, it became obvious I had fallen madly in love with Switzerland. Our romance blossomed that afternoon as we zipped through Alpine villages toward Chez Vrony — a restaurant we now consider among our “Top Five.”

With a front-row seat to the Matterhorn, Chez Vrony came from humble beginnings as a family farmhouse. Over the past century, traditional recipes have been passed down for generations. Each dish is prepared with organic products including the dried meats, house sausage and Alpine cheese. Withstanding the test of time, the family eventually turned their farmhouse into one of the area’s best restaurants, one so beautiful I almost cried.

For me, these were life-giving moments, where I would smile at no one in particular, but rather at the fact that Switzerland had my heart. Actually, it had the heart of many with its 110 hotels, 365 days of snow, 100 restaurants, 50 bars and unlimited winter and summer activities. It had me with 300-plus days of sunshine, a constant wink from the Matterhorn, and ski-in-ski-out everything.

Unclicking our bindings, we sauna-fied our bodies and ate local with back-to-back dinners at Cervo. With five dining options, our hotel hooked us with the Middle Eastern menu at Bazaar , and later with homemade pasta at Madre Nostre .

Walking back to our room, I turned toward my husband and asked if he noticed we had spoken four languages with the staff in two hours. He hadn’t, because that’s just the way things are in Switzerland — in a country that leaves me longing to be more. Where pyramid-shaped mountains are so magnificent, I feel I can reach out and touch them.

It’s where loving my neighbor holds true meaning, because I know they would toil with me when the soil is dry; where I can take pride in my name because it has Swiss significance; where an army of citizens could rise up, but instead choose peace; where eating is an experience and nature is a habit; where the air literally has the power to heal.

This was my country — a place where I can bloom, regardless of the cold and bareness; where clouds live in the valley and sunshine rises on the mountaintop; where traditions are held close, and family is held closer.

Looking back on my husband’s two-year citizenship process, one might ask if the journey was really worth the destination? Considering I’m now officially married to a Swiss man, I’d say so.

Kast-Myers is a freelance travel writer based in Valley Center and the owner of Brick n Barn; marlisekast.co

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How to Plan an Unforgettable Trip to Rome, According to Local Experts

Whether your tastes swing towards art and architecture, high-end shopping and dining, or browsing markets and munching on street food, it’s an exciting time to visit Rome.

Elizabeth Heath is a writer and editor living on a hill in Umbria, from where she writes about travel in Italy, the rest of Europe, and farther afield.

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For me, the Eternal City is eternally fabulous. No matter how crowded it gets, how dysfunctional its current government is, or how many bad pizzas there are in ratio to good ones, Rome remains. It’s persisted and resisted for more than 2,775 years, and even at this ripe old age, Rome is still evolving. 

It’s an exciting time to visit Rome, and even for people who live there, the flurry of post-pandemic activity in the travel sector has been dizzying. “Archaeological sites that have been fenced-off for years are now accessible to visitors, there’s a host of innovative new tour options, and I can barely keep up with the number of absolutely stunning luxury hotels that have opened ,” says Travel + Leisure contributor and Rome resident Laura Itzkowitz, who also writes about Rome in her newsletter, The New Roman Times . “It’s a delight to see so much investment in the city and so many new ways to experience it.” 

No matter how you decide to see the city or whether your tastes swing towards art and architecture, high-end shopping and dining, or browsing markets and munching on street food, Rome gives you options. We asked Itzkowitz and some other Rome travel experts to weigh in on their favorite places and experiences to recommend in eternal Rome.

Top 5 Can’t Miss

• Swoon over the cityscape. Few things are as romantic as Rome at night from a vantage point like the Fontana dell'Acqua Paola or the Capitoline Hill.
• See marble turn to flesh. At the Galleria Borghese, Bernini’s lifelike sculptures are a gazillion times more impressive than what you remember from art history class. 
• Do the Full Monty of Italian dining. Bring your appetite and go big, with antipasto, pasta, main course, and dessert at a homey trat like Da Enzo da 29.  
• Get up early. At least once during your stay, request an early wake-up call to discover a deserted city. ArcheoRoma can lead the way. 
• Shop at a market. If you don’t buy produce, trinkets, or street food at a real Roman market like Testaccio or Campo de’ Fiore, have you been to Rome? 

Courtesy of Bettoja Hotels

Palazzo Vilòn

If there’s one thing our experts agree on, it’s that Palazzo Vilòn luxury apartment is the most sumptuous new address in Rome. Nicole Bono, luxury travel and events planner with Bono Events International says, “When they open the doors for you, your jaw will drop.” Gary Portuesi, a T+L Top Travel Advisor with Authentic Explorations , says that at Vilòn, “you get to live like a Roman aristocrat in an intimate palazzo in the best neighborhood.”

Singer Palace

“I'm in love with the Singer Palace these days,” says Bono of this 19th-century beauty in the former Singer sewing machine headquarters. “It's family-owned, and that is felt with every single detail in this property. You're truly cuddled from the moment you walk in the door till your last Spritz before you leave.”

Hotel de Russie, a Rocco Forte Hotel

T+L readers’ favorite hotel in Rome is also a hit with Portuesi, who raves about its “with its unique and secluded Mediterranean tiered secret garden walking distance from the Spanish Steps, Fontana di Trevi and Piazza del Popolo.” The hotel’s Stravinskij Bar remains one of Rome’s most elegant locales for a cocktail.  

Hotel Mediterraneo

Every time I exit Termini Station, I sigh with comfort at the sight of this trusty four-star in a fascist-era Art Deco building. Stepping through the doors feels like stepping back in time, in a good way, with old-school service, a delightful lobby bar, and humongous suites, some with skyline views of Rome.

Christopher Larson/Travel + Leisure

Basilica di San Clemente

For a real sense of how Rome’s history is layered like a lasagna, head to this church near the Colosseum — or rather, underneath it. An atmospheric archaeological area beneath the not-too-shabby 12th-century church holds an even earlier Christian church, which lies on top of a pagan altar and an ancient Roman apartment building.  

ArcheoRunning

If you’re a runner, join archaeologist, guide, and running enthusiast Isabella Calidonna on an early morning jogging tour through Rome's truly magical empty streets. (Trust me, it’s okay if you run slowly.) If you’re not a runner, don’t sweat it — she’ll be happy to do the same informative tour at a walking pace. 

Via del Governo Vecchio

Spend a late afternoon vintage shopping on my favorite street in Rome , then stick around for an aperitivo, followed by pizza and gelato. If that trifecta of Roman drinking and eating isn’t enough, this splendid street near Piazza Navona has a buzzy but manageable bar-hopping scene. 

Largo Argentina

Want to stand at the very site (or very near it, anyway) where Julius Caesar lost his life? Long visible only from street level and best known as a cat sanctuary among picturesque ruins, the archaeological area at Largo Argentina site is now open to the public, thanks to funding from Bulgari . The Curia of Pompeo, where Caesar got shivved, stands near the ruins of four ancient temples.

Galleria Borghese

Reserve your tickets in advance and prepare to be overwhelmed by the beauty here, both of the ornate salons of this noble palace turned art museum, and the amazing works inside, including Bernini’s spellbinding "Rape of Proserpine" and several Caravaggio paintings.

Testaccio Market

This sprawling covered market in the working-class Testaccio neighborhood offers an authentic slice of Roman daily life. Even if you’re not shopping for clothing, produce or fresh fish, stop for some of Rome’s best street food, especially a suppli at Food Box or a drippy panino at Modri e Vai. 

Itzkowitz is a fan of this artisan jeweler in Monti and even had owner Antonio design a pair of custom earrings for her wedding. If you don’t have time for a made-to-order bauble, the shop has many original designs, many of which feature colorful gemstones.

Essenzialmente Laura

For a real only-in-Rome gift or souvenir, Portuesi refers friends and clients to the perfumery of Laura Bosetti Tonatto, who’s made custom scents for celebrities, royals, and aristocrats, including Queen Elizabeth II. “You can create your own perfect perfume or find the scent you love,” he says. 

La Bottega del Marmoraro

It’s hard to imagine a store like this anywhere else — a tiny workshop on pretty Via Margutta where stone carver Sandro Fiorentino tinks away at marble plaques by hand. “I love to bring out-of-town visitors here,” says Itzkowitz. “Prices start at around 15 euros, which means you can find an affordable, handmade souvenir.”

Courtesy of Hassler Hotel

Fontana dell'Acqua Paola

Some of the best things in Rome are free, including the views from this monumental fountain high on the Janiculum hill. It’s one of T+L’s top underrated things to do in Rome . Fans of the Oscar-winning film “Rome, the Great Beauty” will recognize this majestic spot.

This classy bar offers great cocktails and light bites with a sublime view. “A table there in the stunning Piazza di Pietra,” says Bono, “with the incredible Roman columns all lit up is truly magical, and it feels like it's just there for you."

Hassler Hotel 7th Floor Terrace

The recipe for an unforgettable Roman evening: Start with panoramic city views from atop the Spanish Steps, stir in a specialty cocktail, garnish with some elevated aperitivo fare, and drink it all in at one of our favorite family-run hotels in Italy and one of the absolute best in Rome.

Da Enzo da 29

Despite its near-legendary status and the long lines for a table (Enzo doesn’t take reservations), Itzkowitz says a meal here is “worth the wait and lives up to the hype — every time.” She’s a fan of the handmade tonarelli cacio e pepe but says that the food here is consistently good across the menu. 

Trattoria Da Cesare Al Pellegrino

This new-in-2023 sister property of a neighborhood favorite in residential Monteverde brings hearty, traditional Roman pasta and meat dishes to the centro storico. “Run, don't walk,” says Bono, “because this city location is super charming, and tourists haven't found it yet.”

Pro Loco Pinciano

Portuesi says you’ll feel like a local at this super-casual pizza and pasta joint just outside the city walls, where the emphasis is on ingredients and wines sourced from the surrounding region on Lazio. Charcuterie platters are delicious and abundant here. 

L'Antica Pesa

Regularly named one of the best restaurants in Rome, this Trastevere culinary landmark is, per Portuesi, “a standard and consistent classic” and worth crossing the river for. Head here for a special dinner or when you’re ready to go big (before going home, maybe?) and order an appetizer, pasta (primo), meat, and dessert for the full Italian dining experience.

You’ve heard all the warnings about visiting in high summer, but if that’s the only time you have to visit, Itzkowitz says to do as the Romans do: rest in your cool hotel room in the afternoon and venture out again in the early evening. Bono agrees that summer can be...sticky but adds, “Those summer sunsets on a rooftop with an Aperol spritz certainly make for that 'Dolce Vita moment' we all crave.”

Portuesi recommends November, as it’s still relatively warm and the crowds have thinned out; January, when sale season starts; or April and October. “Tourists might still be there, but the colors of spring and autumn are amazing, and temperatures are on the warm side.” I love visiting in January or February when the crowds are much more manageable, and if you’re lucky, you can catch some lovely, crisp, sunny days.

Most visitors fly into Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci/Fiumicino Airport (FCO). From there, you can take a 30-minute non-stop train to Termini, the central station, and take a taxi, Metro, bus, or tram to your accommodation. A cab from FCO to anywhere inside the Aurelian Walls costs 50 euros. Ride-sharing services other than Uber Black are not available in Rome. 

Rome’s historic center is primarily flat and highly walkable. Many visitors take the Metro to reach the Vatican Museums, then walk back into the city from there (or take a cab from St. Peter’s Square). 

Buses and Metro, both run by ATAC , are also reliable ways to get around, though depending on the distance, walking may be faster. Note that taxis in Rome cannot be hailed on the street. Instead, they wait at taxi stands or ranks generally located near tourist areas. 

I strongly recommend against renting a car in Rome, as traffic and parking are a mess and the centro is a maze of one-way streets, many of which are pedestrian-only. If you pick up a car in Rome for a more extended tour in Italy, make sure you have your route mapped out in advance — and nerves of steel. 

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