I love books. I’m still a member of that shrinking minority that enjoys reading in bursts of more than 140 characters. (And you are, too, if you read this far.)

As a bibliophile, naturally, I gravitate toward Brooklyn’s best fall festival: the Brooklyn Book Festival, which took place at the end of September. In past years, I’ve listened to Jonathan Safran-Foer–one of my favorite writers–read alongside Joyce Carol Oates, whose chosen excerpt was lengthy, eliminating the chance for a Q&A. The year before that, I cornered Daniel Asa Rose, an author whose brain I had wanted to pick, since his book about the Holocaust paralleled a nonfiction manuscript I’m still completing.

This year, however, I decided to indulge in the festival’s diversity, which featured more than one hundred programs.

The first panel discussion I attended was Comics by the People, which focused on how artists and writers can launch independent careers with tools like Kickstarter, the website that had allowed Amanda Palmer to raise 1.2 million dollars with the support of nearly 25,000 backers, who funded the creation of her latest album. In an age where publishing is fickle and houses are cautious, many artists are turning to self-publishing like Molly Crabapple, the panelist who had used Kickstarter to fund her “Week in Hell” project. Her idea was to lock herself in a Manhattan hotel room for seven days, cover the walls in paper, and create art. She required $4,500 to pay for the room and supplies. Backers gave five times that amount.

It’s a misconception, Crabapple warned, that Kickstarter is an “awesome, free charity for artists. [Receiving funds through Kickstarter] is not your first foray. It’s your reward for years of hard work… We’ve all spent years building value.”

Later in the day, I wanted to explore this theme further. I sat in on the event, “So, You Want to Publish a Book?” In attendance were aspiring writers and frustrated self-published authors. Literary agent and author of Your First Novel Ann Rittenberg moderated the panel, which consisted of four acclaimed editors who tried to paint a real picture of the book industry. But there were those who couldn’t escape fantasy and when it was time for questions, Rittenberg, the editors, and the audience had to entertain queries like:

“How can I write the next Twilight?”

Since it occurred to me that many writers in attendance had legitimate questions that went unanswered because of time constraints, I asked Rittenberg during our post-festival conversation what writers can do beyond self-publishing, since a few people at the festival had voiced their disappointment with self-publishing.

“You need to do your research,” she said, offering up hypothetical questions for writers to ask themselves before submitting their manuscripts to agents or editors: “Is it different enough? Are you an expert? Do you have the passion to write this book?” Rittenberg also pointed out that writers need to network and read acknowledgement pages of books similar to their own in order to discover agents who might be interested in their manuscript. “I like to demystify the business for [writers] and give them a reality check.”

My favorite truism from the discussion actually occurred during a tech malfunction when panelists, without the help of a techie, were forced to spend minutes fiddling with a pair of microphones that were squealing at one another. The audience and panel were getting frustrated. But the editors and agent managed to fix the problem and Rittenberg announced, “I think to be in book publishing, you have to be an eternal optimist.”

Of course, the festival is not just geared toward those who want to publish; it’s for readers, too. The panel discussion on “The Politics of Identity–Do They Still Matter?” ostensibly a serious topic, was uncomfortably funny. For instance, Rebecca Walker, author of Black Cool, confused a random black audience member for Baratunde Thurston, a panelist who was running thirty minutes late to the event. Thurston, when he finally arrived in his How To Be Black sweatshirt (the title of his new book), and Wesley Yang, a self-estranged Korean, humorously explored racial stereotypes and the fallacies of a post-racial America.

The only location where festival-goers could avoid lines was for the Main Stage, which was set up in the courtyard, near the tents where small publishing houses and literary magazines promoted their works. There, Sapphire–author of Push, which had inspired the blockbuster film Precious–took part in a discussion about violence in literature. Before that, Tony Danza was rapping about New York, stumbling over a rhyme that included the apparently discombobulating name of former senator, Alfonse D’Amato. Danza, who was plugging his book, I’d Like to Apologize to Every Teacher I Ever Had, (his story about teaching for one year in Philadelphia’s public schools), was a hit with this Brooklyn crowd.

He won them over by voicing support for unions and teachers, and inflating his Brooklynese. He wooed them further with lines like “Let me hit you with teacher terms… Do Now… Modeling… Someone said I need a Venn diagram. I made a doctor’s appointment.” And he brought laughs when he told the story of his teacher, Mr. Dye, whose birthday he helped celebrate so many years ago by bringing a pair of six packs to his class.

It was ironic that Danza chose the festival to commit the following sins: He butchered the English language (“I says”), ruined book titles (“It’s in The Mockingbird.” Is that the prequel of To Kill a Mockingbird?), and destroyed the confidence of his students (Danza told the story about laughing at one kid after a peer compared the boy to Steinbeck’s Lennie). As a high school teacher of special education for eight years, my biggest cringe moment came when Brooklyn Borough President Marty Markowitz proclaimed Danza’s book “required reading” for first year teachers.

Though the warmth of the day started to dissipate, crowds hung around for the end to listen to celebrity writers like Dan Savage speak at a discussion about marriage and monogamy.

I visited the courthouse where The New York Times’ Gail Collins and Jodi Kantor sparred for Obama against Romney’s lone supporter, John R. MacArthur. The crowd was an opinionated bunch and I overheard disapproval of Collins’ referencing how Obama thought that other politicians were “jerks.” A woman turned to her neighbor and quietly complained of moderator Ta-Nahisi Coates’ outfit–a hoodie and hat.

When it was time for the Q&A, Coates, having met crowds like this before, humorously warned, “Do not make a statement. I will throw this microphone at you.”

Nobody challenged him, allowing questions for a distinguished panel to be answered. The most thoughtful question came from a shaggy-haired high schooler, which properly concluded the festival and allowed those in the presence of this youngster to recognize that reading–beyond Twitter–still matters.

Photo by David Dioctria

The post The Brooklyn Book Festival appeared first on The Faster Times.

When I cook chili, I eat it for dinner, at breakfast the next morning, and I make certain to pack some for lunch. The diet continues until I reach the bottom of the pot.

As the weather begins to turn on us, I was reminded of my favorite winter dish and of the best food festival I attended this summer when I found chili heaven at the South Street Seaport. The Beekman Beer Garden, a sandy respite with the Brooklyn Bridge as its backdrop, was the site of the 19th Annual Lone Star Chili Cook-Off.

The event brings together 1,500 carnivores, most of whom are alumni from the University of Texas and Texas A&M. But ever since the competition was forced to leave its rooftop roots uptown, it blew up like a room after a chili cook-off and the crowd has become a melting pot of chili enthusiasts from all across the city, some without any connection to Texas.

The first person I met was Tom Ellis of team More Cowbell. He was pacing nervously while his teammates, all of whom were inspired by Christopher Walken’s famous plea on Saturday Night Live, banged the cowbell, adding to the cacophony of reunited friends and rivals.

“We’ve won second place twice in seven years. But I’d love to win it all,” Ellis told me.

In his years of competition, Ellis had garnered a few tricks:

“I use mashed potatoes to thicken up the chili. For heat,” he looked over his shoulder. “I use Blair’s Ultra Death.” Those three words made Tom Ellis ebullient. “I swear to God, not even one drop will light you up.” The cowbell clanged louder than the band on stage. “I’m thinking about adding it to the third pot. I have a feeling we’re going nuclear.”

The rules for the competition are simple: Five member teams had to concoct five gallons of chili. Judges were looking for five things: color, heat, flavor, texture, and taste. (Read the Pointers from the Pros if you’re getting inspired.)

The best six teams make the finals. The grand prize: two cases of Shiner Bock beer, a Texas brew. (There is also the People’s Choice Award.)

Sampling all of the chili was a feat. Judging it was even harder since each cup robbed my tongue of sensation and my gut of vacancy. Plus, thanks to the unlimited Six Point Sweet Action beer, I was no longer a responsible decision-maker. However, of all the chilis, some managed to stand out to me, even though most of the following did not advance to the finals.

I thought Team Chilitios was daring, having poured two pounds of Swiss chocolate into their meat concoction. Best dressed went to the team in “Meat is Murder” shirts. “Delicious Murder” was printed on the back. A pregnant New Yorker with a Hot Mama nametag on her chest and another sticker pasted to her burgeoning stomach, which read The Babe, represented Baby Wants Chili.

“He’s pretty tolerant of mom’s love of chili,” the expecting mother told me, rubbing her belly, though it was unclear as to whether it was child or chili receiving her affection.

Cacho Borraccho Y Los Muchachos were five Brooklynites. Colin, AKA Cacho Borraccho, used his dad’s recipe, which consisted of Irish ale and a quarter bottle of whiskey.

“Some people were born with a silver spoon in their mouth,” he told me. “I was born with a chili spoon.” Having received that congenital utensil actually paid off. Cacho Borraccho made the finals.

Like any well-established competition, the cook-off had its conspiracy theorists. One competitor surmised that “the judges are ground beef people. [Cooking with ground beef is] the only way to advance.” His chili was made with brisket, pork belly, and chuck. “That’s how the cowboys used to do it. They didn’t have meat grinders out on the range.”

The $50 ticket price covers all-you-can-drink beer, wine, and sangria. Of course copious amounts of chili are included too, though with Texans and New Yorkers who love chili, it actually does run out.

After being spit on by every second person I had spoken with, since mouths watered like sprinkler systems from the heat and salt, I found Tom Ellis again. I wanted to know how much he had invested on this competition.

“It’s about $300 to make five gallons of chili. Plus the entry fee is $150.”

“How much do two cases of Shiner Bock cost?” I asked.

“One hundred dollars.” He laughed at his poor investment strategy. “But it’s good Texas beer. Plus you get bragging rights.”

This was followed by more cowbell.

Photo by Simon Glue

The post The Lone Star Chili Cookoff appeared first on The Faster Times.

The name Bushmills is recognizable for the Irish whiskey that takes its name. But it’s also a village in Northern Ireland, where I was to spend the night. When we drove down the main street of the village I saw lots of people in store windows going about their lives: mothers with children buying meat for the family dinner, men sitting at tables, watching the cars go by, no doubt telling entertaining stories. There were a couple of local pubs and several mom-and-pop-looking establishments. When we checked into the Bushmills Inn, a cozy property with peat-burning fireplaces as well as a welcoming pub and restaurant, I dumped my luggage in a vast room with a king-sized, four-poster bed and a huge bathroom with its very own lap-tub (you could have farmed salmon in it; if you filled it up it would have changed the weather). Then I took my camera and notebook, and set off for the town. It was unusual to have free time, and it was probably an oversight. The people who run tour companies seem to think that if every minute is not taken up with seeing something, their customers will somehow feel slighted. I relished the opportunity, and planned to make the most of it.

Everywhere I traveled in Ireland, the food seemed to come from some farm right down the road. Nobody bragged or made a big deal out of it because where else would food come from? I would tell local restaurant proprietors about the “Slow Food” movement in the United States, and they would look at me with amazement: they couldn’t understand why such a thing would even need to exist. So when I was staring out the van window, I developed a fantasy of interviewing some local butcher with whom I could speak about how ridiculous it is that most of the United States gets its food frozen, off the back of a truck. This would then lead to a spirited and profound discussion of family values, family business, and the importance of place. At which point he or she would then invite me to their house to make me some kind of feast.

“Which way is the butcher shop?” I asked the lady at the hotel’s reception desk.

“The town is down the driveway, through the arch, and then you take a right. But…”

“Thanks!” And I was off. I didn’t have time for prolonged chit-chat. I was on a mission to see some local culture; and I had a deadline, as I was supposed to meet my group for dinner in only an hour.

I followed the receptionist’s directions, and started walking down the street. Up to my right was the town’s only butcher shop: a family owned spot that had been in operation for several hundred years, started by a great patriarch with mischievous green eyes and a ready laugh, whose legacy had been passed down to subsequent generations through the ancient tradition of oral storytelling. At least that’s what I had hoped. But when I got up to the window I saw that the shop wasn’t real but merely a giant scanned image of a butcher shop taped to the interior of its windows. I walked next door, to the cobbler, but that storefront was also a facade. I walked up and down the street, and with the exception of a bed-and-breakfast and another pub, the entirety of the village was nothing more than a bunch of false advertising.

What the hell? Was I in Northern Ireland or on a set on the backlot of Universal Studios?

Depressed, downtrodden, and altogether disappointed, I walked with stooped shoulders back to the hotel and to the outside of the hotel’s restaurant where I slumped into a chair. A black-and-white cat, sitting on a wall, came over and jumped in my lap. He looked up at me with predatory eyes, as if to say: “Snap out of it!”

“You are real, aren’t you?” I asked the cat, who purred in response. Then he saw something more interesting somewhere, and his claws dug into my legs, and he took off like a bolt of furry lightning. I looked down to see eight little puncture wounds in my favorite travel pants.

I got up and walked into the overheated pub, which smelled of peat and oft-told family stories, walked up to the bar, and ordered a pint of Guinness.

“This whole town is fake,” I said to the bartender.

“No. Just closed,” the bartender said. He was a good bartender, I felt, both knowledgeable and chatty—yet young enough not to be a crank pot.

“It fooled me. I bonked into a fake door.”

“When the Olympic torch came through here, they didn’t think it would look good to see a bunch of empty storefronts, so they put fake ones up.”

“Well they did a good job. You really can’t tell.”

“Once you know they’re fake it’s pretty obvious.”

I didn’t say anything to that. Or maybe I grunted, or let out a harumph.

We talked about how I had just visited Giants Causeway, which sounds like something you might see in scenic East Rutherford, N.J., near Giants Stadium. In fact, it’s a collection of odd geometric basalt rock formations along the northern Irish coast that could have been booby trapped obstacles in an Indiana Jones movie (step on the wrong one, and an arrow goes through your eyeball). But these rocks leant the coast its air of mysticism. I could easily imagine Merlin and a host of Druids hexing people on the UNESCO World Heritage site, even if it now features a new, “interactive” museum.

“Sucks they built that museum there,” the bartender said. “You can’t take the rocks now. They make good stools.”

I had heard many stories from various tour guides involving Irish thievery over the last few days, and so the idea of a group of people hauling off rocks weighing hundreds or thousands of pounds almost made sense. It’s well known that the Irish, like many of the world’s historically subjugated cultures, have had a rough go of it. Pilfering for survival—along with great storytelling—seems built into their DNA.

Drinking the Guinness, talking with the chatty bartender, I started wondering what I was looking for and why. Here it was, 2012, and I was looking for an Irish village from the seventeenth century. Why should I be surprised, that just like in America, other countries are modernizing and falling prey to the false charms of progress? Small towns can suffer attrition just as much in Northern Ireland as they can in Iowa. It’s as if I was looking for some non-existent romanticized version of Northern Ireland instead of its current reality.

I might not have gotten my family butcher story. And I might not have seen the village, since it doesn’t seem to be open anymore. But I did, in the end, get a peek behind the curtain—even if it wasn’t the experience I had made up in my head—that I couldn’t have found driving in the van from one expected sight to the next. It hadn’t gone the way I’d planned it, but I’d still found what I was looking for. I took my Guinness, bid the bartender adieu, tipped him handsomely, and walked to my room, satisfied.

The post What Whiskey Will Do to a Town appeared first on The Faster Times.

*Common courtesies. You’re more likely to get what you ask for when you preface a request with “per favore” (please) and respond to any kindness with “grazie” (thank you). Prego (literally “I beg”) can mean, “You’re welcome,” or, in some circumstances, “by all means.”

*Salutations. Although “ciao!” has become world-famous, the more polite greeting is “Buongiorno” (Good Day, used until after lunch or late afternoon, depending on the region) or “Buonasera” (Good Evening). An alternative more common in the North than the South is “Salve!” Take your leave with a cheery “Arrivederci!” (See you again! Goodbye!)

*Introductions. In Italian, you don’t simply announce your name. You say, “Mi chiamo…” (I call myself). To find out another person’s name, ask, “Come si chiama?” (How do you call yourself?)

*How are you? When asked “come sta?” you might reply “bene” (well), “molto bene” (very well) or non c’é male (not bad). If asked “come va?” (how’s it going), the most common answer is the Italian equivalent of “okay”: “va bene” (it’s going well). A common alternative: “Tutto a posto” (everything’s in order).

*Asking for help. If it’s a true emergency, shout “Aiuto!” If you’d like help buying a souvenir, ask, “Scusi, può aiutarmi?” (Excuse me, can you help me?) If you need directions, say “Scusi, potrebbe indicarmi la strada per….” (Excuse me, can you indicate the way to…) To acknowledge the kindness of a stranger, say, “Lei é molto gentile” (You are very kind).

*Buying. It’s possible to shop without words anywhere in the world, but the following phrases will serve you well in Italy: Quanto costa? (How much does it cost?) Posso pagare con la carta di credito? (Can I pay with a credit card?) “In cash” translates as in contanti. If you want to try something on, ask “Posso provarlo/a?”

*Time. To find out the time, you ask “Che ora é?” (what is the hour?) or “Che ore sono?” (what are the hours?). Italy uses a 24-hour clock (sistema orario a 24 ore) so that 6:00 p.m., for instance, is 18:00 (diciotto). “Mezzo” refers to the half (3:30 is le tre e mezzo); “quarto,” to 15 minutes. Le tre meno il quarto is 2:45; le tre e un quarto is 3:15).

*Weather. Everyone talks about it everywhere, but in Italian weather (il tempo) “makes” rather than “is.” “Fa bello” (literally makes beautiful) means “It’s a nice day.” Weather can also fa brutto (ugly), freddo (cold) or caldo (hot). On a sunny day, “c’è sole” (there’s sun). “Cloudy” translates as coperto (covered) or nuvoloso; “it’s raining,” as piove.

*Illness. “Sto male” means “I’m feeling bad.” Common travelers’ complaints include headache (mal di testa), stomach ache (male di pancia), fever (febbre) and pain (dolore). If you’re allergic to anything, be sure to say, “Sono allergico a...”

*Compliments. Memorize at least one of the following: Che bello! (How beautiful!) Che meraviglia! (How marvelous!) Favoloso! (Fantastic!). With any luck, you’ll have many occasions to unfurl these words of praise and delight.

Other Useful Words and Expressions

Sono americano/inglese/ francese/spagnolo, etc. — I’m American, English, French, Spanish, etc.

Non ho capito – I didn’t/don’t understand

Può ripetere, per favore? — Can you repeat, please?

Parla inglese? — Do you speak English?

Come si dice……in italiano? – How do you say …… in Italian?

Dianne Hales is the author of LA BELLA LINGUA: My Love Affair with Italian, the World’s Most Enchanting Language.

The post 10 Phrases You Shouldn’t Go to Italy Without appeared first on The Faster Times.

May festivals

“Aprile con il fiore, maggio con il colore,” Italians say, “April with its flower, May with its color.” A rainbow of Italian colors, sounds and flavors is on full display during le feste (festivals) of May. If you’re heading to Italy this month, you can cheer the drivers in the famous Mille Miglia (1000 mile) car rally, celebrate Pinocchio’s birthday in Collodi (Tuscany) or sip Chianti at the wine festival in Montespertoli. Here are some other not-to-be-missed festivities:

*Maggio Musicale Fiorentino, one of the oldest music festivals in Italy, features opera, concerts and dance. The outdoor performances at night often end with dazzling fireworks displays. While in Florence, be sure to go the city’s famous Iris Garden, open to the general public only in May. You’ll gain an entirely new appreciation for the root of Florence’s Italian name: Firenze, derived from the Latin for “to flower or blossom.”

*Giro d’Italia, the largest cycling event of the country, begins on May 5 and eventually climbs the famous Passo dello Stelvio to finish at the summit for the first time in the history of the event.

*Corsa dei Ceri (Race of the Candles). The stony, silent town of Gubbio in Umbria explodes into frenzied excitement every May 15. Three teams of men run up and down its steep streets carrying Ceri, gigantic wooden constructions, each weighing about a thousand pounds and bearing a statue of a saint on top. The Ceri and the Corsa dei Matti (Race of the Crazy Ones, as it’s nicknamed) may date back to the twelfth century, when Gubbio was miraculously spared from the forces of Frederick Barbarossa. Its citizens credited Sant’ Ubaldo, who died on May 16,1160, for its salvation, and the town has held a ceremony on the eve of his death since the Middle Ages. The celebration culminates with La Tavola Bona, a banquet for 700 people, including the “crazy” Ceraioli or candle-bearers.

Other options include:

*Calendimaggio, a series of medieval and Renaissance spettacoli (shows) with concerts, dances, archery, flag-waving, cross-bow displays and torch-lit processions, held in Assisi in early May.

*La Barabbata, a procession in which men wear costumes and carry tools representing the traditional trades while white buffalo pull floats displaying the fruits of the trades, celebrated May 14 in Marta on the shores of Lake Bolsena.

*La Festa di San Domenico, a procession on the first Thursday in May in Cocullo in the Abruzzi, highlighted by the carrying of a statue of the town’s patron saint covered with live serpents.

*Sposalizio dell’Albero, the wedding of the tree, on May 8 in Vetralla in northern Lazio, in which townspeople decorate a couple of oak trees with garlands and plant new trees in a ceremony that asserts the town’s domination over the forest.

*Infiorata di Noto, a huge festival with flower petal art displays and a parade in Noto, Sicily, during the third weekend of May.

*Il Palio di Ferrara, a historical horse race dating from 1279, run the last Sunday in May, with events every weekend of the month, including a procession with over 1000 people in Renaissance costumes on the Saturday night before the race.

Words and Expressions

festeggiare – to celebrate, welcome, entertain

festaiolo — party animal, merry maker

il festeggiato / la festeggiata — the guest of honor

festino — banquet, party, feast

festicciola — get-together, gathering, small party

far festa a qualcuno — to welcome or greet someone warmly

guastafeste — party pooper

Dianne Hales is author of LA BELLA LINGUA: MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH ITALIAN, THE WORLD’S MOST ENCHANTING LANGUAGE.

The post Celebrating May in Italy appeared first on The Faster Times.

The Tuscan Sun Cookbook

Some people win you over with “hello”; some books, with an irresistible cover or title. Frances Mayes had me with one spell-binding sentence about the choreography of the kitchen (la coreografia della cucina). The moment I read it, I wondered how it would sound in Italian. With the help of my invaluable colleague Valentina Medda, here is the translation:

*I peel (io che sbuccio)

*you scrape (tu che gratti)

*wine spills (vino che si rovescia)

*bag splits (busta che si rompe)

*beans simmer (fagioli che cuociono a fuoco lento)

*sink slurps (lavello che inghiotte l’acqua avidamente)

*petals fall (petali che cadono)

*flour drifts (farina che scivola)

*crust splits (crosta che si spacca)

*aromas spread (aromi che si diffondono)

*lights flicker (luci che sfarfallano)

*chocolate melts (cioccolato che si scioglie)

*glass shatters (vetro che va in frantumi)

*sauce thickens (salsa che si addensa)

*finger bleeds (dito che sanguina)

*cheese ripens (formaggio che matura)

*crumbs fall (briciole che cadono)

*sweat drips (sudore che cola)

*spoon bangs (cucchiaio che sbatte)

*meat glistens (carne che brilla)

*oil spatters (olio che schizza)

*wine breathes (vino che respira)

*garlic smashes (aglio che si schiaccia)

*lettuces float (lattughe che galleggiano)

*silver shines (argento che brilla)

*apron snags (grembiule che si impiglia)

*you sneeze (tu che starnutisci)

*I sing ‘oh, my love, my darling’ (io che canto ‘oh, amore mio, tesoro mio’)

*and dough rises (e pasta che lievita) in soft moons the size of my cupped hand (in morbide lune, delle dimensioni della mia mano a coppa),

*as planet earth tilts us toward dinner (mentre il pianeta Terra ci inclina verso la cena).

The Tuscan Sun Cookbook: Recipes from our Italian Kitchen, by Frances and Edward Mayes, celebrates the soul- and appetite-satisfying essence of la cucina povera (the poor kitchen) of rural Tuscany. If you could capture the sweet and savory joys of Italian food and friendship in a book, this sumptuous volume would be it. It delights the eye, tickles the taste buds and warms the soul.

More of a buona forchetta (hearty eater) than a cook, I found the words as mouth-watering as the dishes, including such savory ones as:

*scottadito: finger-burners, small grilled lamb chops you eat with your fingers

*stagionata/o: seasoned, used for cheeses aged about a year until hard and flaky; semi-stagionata/o, aged for three or four months

*sformato: unformed, sort of a quiche without a crust (or form)

*pomarola: tomato sauce. Cans of Italian tomatoes are pelati.

*pasta asciutta / pastasciutta: dry pasta that comes in dozens of tongue-pleasing forms, such as mezze maniche (short sleeves), radiatori (radiators), strozzapreti (priest stranglers), stellette (little stars), orecchiette (little ears), penne (pens), vermicelli (little worms), linguine (little tongues), farfalle (butterflies) and cavatappi (corkscrews).

Another essential lesson: The abbreviations “q.b.” or “q.s.” in Italian recipes stand for quanto basta and quantum sufficit (whatever’s enough) — something Tuscans always seem to know.

The post Cooking Under the Tuscan Sun appeared first on The Faster Times.

The last time I planned a trip, it went a little something like this:

Flight: Found a good deal on Travelocity, booked it, paid for it, the whole thing took about an hour, including research time and picking the perfect seat via Seatguru.

Hotel: Checked HotelChatter, Jaunted, and Concierge.com for cool hotels, then looked for a deal via Jetsetter, Tablet, Vacationist and Voyage Prive, and compared prices at Expedia, Travelocity, and Hotels.com. Finally booked it on Expedia. All in it took about two hours.

Everything else: Spent weeks canvassing friends; searching through Conde Nast Traveler, Wallpaper, NYT, and Travel + Leisure articles; and skimming through Yelp reviews. Made a list of finds. Eventually turned that list into a spreadsheet. A spreadsheet, people! I hate spreadsheets. Called to book a hiking tour, a farm tour, and a horse-riding tour. Tried to book restaurant reservations on OpenTable and managed with a couple of places. Called to book the others. Total time spent over the course of three weeks: At least 20 hours.

That last bit is where a new travel site, Peek comes in. Officially launching this summer, Peek will connect travelers with a variety of memorable experiences—everything from the more expected, must-do things like Alcatraz tours in San Francisco to more unique, top-shelf activities like a champagne breakfast and balloon ride followed by an olive oil tasting in Napa. The site will also allow travelers to browse through itineraries created by both travel writers and local experts. Peek will link various tours and sights with write-ups they’ve received in well-known travel pubs (no more checking T+L, Traveler, the New York Times, and National Geographic to cross-reference and see who’s covered what, hooray!), and will include a good number of lesser-known finds… the sorts of experiences that you only hear about from friends because the operator doesn’t have a website. The idea is to connect travelers with the stuff great travel memories are made of and to make it all easy to find and book online. It seems like such an obvious need, it’s almost hard to believe that no one’s built this site yet.

“When you go on a trip, even if you stay at the most amazing hotel and fly first class, it’s generally not the flight or the hotel you remember, it’s what you did with your time there,” says Peek CEO and co-founder Ruzwana Bashir. “My memories of paragliding over Rio, or exploring the favelas, are what come to mind when I think about my trip to Brazil, not the hotel I stayed in. And yet finding and booking these took several calls and hours of research, and every time I mention it to a friend who’s been to Rio they say they wished they had known about it before they went.”

Bashir previously worked at both Gilt Groupe and Art.sy, which helps to explain why a site that hasn’t even launched yet has already scored nods from the New York Times and Business Insider. So far it’s looking like it will actually live up to the hype.

Peek will launch on the West Coast first, with more domestic and international locations coming online soon. In the meantime, the site is coming out today with a sneak preview of the sorts of things it plans to offer, in the form of its Insider’s Tribeca Film Festival Experience (you’ll need to sign up here to get more details or to book it). Priced at $1,000 for two, the experience includes a private lunch at the legendary Per Se with Tribeca Film Festival co-founder Craig Hatkoff, tickets to the festival’s Filmmaker & Industry Party, passes to film screenings of your choice, and massages at decadent Shibui Spa at the Greenwich Hotel (owned by “the other” festival co-founder, Robert De Niro). Bashir says Peek will be rolling out more news and sneak peaks over the coming months, so it’s worth signing up, even if you’re not into the Tribeca thing.

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This year, the only star tours of any stripe are happening across the pond, where on October 15th, the Russians are sending up a complement of cosmonauts and astronauts to relieve the crew of the International Space Station. Since the Space Shuttle program ended, Russia charges NASA $43 million per seat to send American personnel up in Soyuz, and my guess is that you’d have to at least match that if you simply can’t wait another year to eat astronaut ice cream in the mesosphere.

There is, however, a much more affordable consolation prize. In the week leading up to the Soyuz launch, a private firm named the MIR corporation (no relationship to the space station) is hosting a “near-space experience” in Russia. True, you won’t get the photo opportunities that Branson’s trip promises, but for your $13,995, with an additional $1395 if you’re traveling alone and don’t take a roommate, your ten days in Russia will give you an experience that’s quite a bit longer, with a training program that’s perhaps at least as intense.

The first full day of the trip includes a visit to the Yuri Gargarin Cosmonaut Training center in the once-classified Star City, where anyone who wants to experience the optional cosmonaut training activities will undergo a thorough physical exam. I can only guess what this might entail, but I don’t see why you’d come this far and not want to do what this allows. You’d experience up to 4 Gs on the world’s largest centrifuge, and get a ride on a parabolic zero-G simulation flight, experiencing zero gravity for at least as long as a ride on Virgin Galactic can offer you, for less than a tenth the price.

You’ll also get to wear an Orlan space suit, the extremely heavy (models weigh up to 265 lbs.) and semi-rigid getup worn on spacewalks. While wearing the suit, participants will also be trained to do the sort of tasks that cosmonauts have to do when floating in space outside of the station, while suspended from a boom to simulate the zero gravity conditions. My guess is that it’s all somewhat harder than it looks.

Led by American Dr. Steven Lee, a Cornell-educated planetary geologist who is now a department chair at the Denver Museum of Nature & Science, the rest of the trip is a cavalcade of all things Russian and extra-planetary. At the moment, the other non-travel days include museum & historical tours, lectures, confabs with actual former and future ISS crew, a visit to Mission Control, and a VIP seat to the Soyuz launch. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are included every non-travel day, but there are no menus or specifics, which, depending on your taste, may not be a plus if you’ve been to Russia. Then again, seledka pod shuboy might be a real experience at zero gravity, and if you’re a vegetarian trying to get by on svejie ovoshy alone, MIR seems willing to help arrange culinary (or any other kind of legal) expeditions pre- or post-itinerary, if you so desire.

Americans who still can’t/shouldn’t/won’t shell out $14k for 10 days among space junkies in Russia can be patient. Extant programs like Adult Space Academy at Space Camp in Alabama already offer a vastly simplified version of astronaut life for $549 apiece, and it’s possible that someday Branson will open his more intense multi-day training program for people who just want the terrestrial experiences. For now, though, MIR’s program looks like the one to beat in 2012 for real space-related activities in the context of an actual mission. Since the Russians put Dennis Tito in Soyuz TM-32 for $20 million back in 2001, they’ve had the edge in the space tourism race, and least for this year, that’s not going to change – no matter what Ashton Kutcher can buy.

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