I’m no music expert, most of my response to music is visceral and associative, but I do know that if the Beastie Boys had been a fad, they wouldn’t have lasted as long as they have.

As I blasted their latest album with car windows open,  to pay homage to the fallen Beastie (Adam MCA Yauch) who passed away from cancer earlier this month, my kids cringed as Mom reminisced semi-publicly. I tend to hate when I pass another car with thumping music blaring, always muttering, “Yeah, I like that music so much” to myself. OK, so forgive me…

I was thinking about the concert they played at Madison Square Garden with Run DMC, the kids clothing store on 10th street, in my hood, owned by Beastie Boy Adam Horowitz’s mom Doris, cheekily named “Gee The Kids Need Clothes,” and dancing till rivers of sweat poured down my back to Brass Monkey, No Sleep Till Brooklyn and others at loft parties, clubs and friend’s homes.

Greenwich Village (and NYC in general) is no stranger to walking tours. I remember parting the crowds to get a cupcake from Magnolia Bakery, a shop featured on Sex in the City, or even wedging through the clumps of tourists snapping photos of my everyday haunts, places where the famous and infamous had worked, lived, partied or died. Once, while soaking in the Communal Russian Baths, in the East Village, a woman pulled out a camera because John Belushi had come there frequently to cleanse himself after his binges.

There is now a suggested self-guided Beastie Boys walking tour, including many of the places important to their life and career. It includes a loft where much of the magic took place in the early years of Beastie Boys rise from punk kids to Rap icons. The corner of Irvington and Ludlow on the Lower East Side is on the itinerary, where the cover for their second album, Paul’s Boutique, was shot. Today there is a restaurant called Paul’s Boutique in honor of the album.

A memorial is currently drawing mourners at 69 Avenue A where Yauch and the Boys recorded the album Polly Wog Stew.

RIP Adam Yauch 1964-2012

Besides passion and the global sports stage, Brazilians have a lot to cheer about. As many Western developed countries still wallow in the mud of recession, Brazil’s economy is dynamic. Record soybean harvests show agricultural clout, a sugarcane/ethanol boom demonstrates forward thinking environmental strategies and a new female president highlight that Brazil is on the move. Strides are being made against poverty and crime, and Brazil’s role in the world order is shifting.

Brazil is a member of BRIC. In economic terms BRIC is an acronym, a term coined in 2001 that refers to the countries of Brazil, Russia, India and China, which are all seemingly at a similar stage of newly advanced economic development. In fact, these days the U.S. is considering changes to our visa system to woo tourists and facilitate the process for visitors from these countries. Disposable income for many is a new thing and certainly travel is on their mind.

For visitors to Brazil, there is so much to see in this, the largest country in South America. From the high tech worlds of Brasilia and Sao Paolo to Rio’s cultural Mecca and the Amazon rainforest, Brazil is a fascinating travel stew. The more relaxed city of Salvador in the northeast was my favorite area, but I wouldn’t miss a visit to Iguaçu Falls on the Argentina border. The beaches and the beach culture never fail to impress and amuse. It is the people who bring the country to life. I would travel back to Brazil in a heartbeat.

Brazil tourism is even cashing in on the new film RIO, the animated story about tropical birds. Interest in family trips to Rio de Janeiro are up according to Travel Weekly and this keeps Brazil in the cultural conversation and segues nicely to the upcoming big global sporting events.

I fondly remember visiting the vastness of Metropolitan Museum of Art, marveling at the classics, journeying to Papua New Guinea and Egypt, giggling at the Greek sculptures and noshing at the, then, very fancy café with all the Upper East Side lady lunchers. Most of all I cherished the multicolored little button you get with admission, which I used to save in a jar.

Every time I return to Manhattan I make a pilgrimage to the Met, no matter what is showing. I bring my own kids and rush through, plying them with candy and promises of a ride on the carousel, much as my parents did.

Recently, on one of the hottest days of the year I had a few hours to make my manic tour of the museum.  After a whirlwind visit to the American Woman fashion exhibit—that rocked as much as the original song and the Lenny Kravitz cover—we had about a half hour to kill. I was with a colleague who insisted we head up to the roof garden, a somewhat hidden and unknown asset to the majestic museum.

It was nearing 100 degrees and I was enjoying the comfort of the cool marble and air conditioning inside, but was up for an adventure. In heels, we hiked up, what seemed like a secret staircase, and made our way to this idyllic, verdant roof garden with a bar and an immense bamboo structure. The Doug and Mike Starn on the Roof: Big Bambú installation is closing this Halloween Sunday. The constantly evolving sculpture was mesmerizing and those who could stay hydrated and withstand the heat were enjoying the whimsy.

There are many great bars in New York, many hip venues,  but to be outdoors, high above Central  Park, with a stunning view of the skyline,  while sipping a cocktail is truly a  special New York experience and a respite from the hurly-burly of Fifth Avenue. Ask a museum guard, in whispers, to guide you to the secret stairwell and make the trek to the top. Hurry, the roof garden is generally open in season through the late fall, weather permitting…although the idea of bundling up and sipping hot toddies and cocoa, looking out over a white blanketed park in winter sounds sublime.

The architecture was majestic, the history epic, but to see the area fixed up and yet still tattered on the edges was uplifting and depressing at the same time. I really got to absorb the information as I was doing some translations into French…stories of freed slaves, rent parties, jazz, the crack years and now the resurrection of the famed quarter.

Our guide was an animated actress/French expat who, despite her arrogant attitude, gave a great tour. We made a pit stop at the Schomburg Library, a public library that is a research center for Black Culture. My dad had done research there in the ’70s and ’80s and I had vague memories of visiting as a child. Then we headed to a church to witness and participate in a gospel-music-infused service.

I have always been intrigued by these tours, but as a native New Yorker I felt odd about it. It seemed voyeuristic, and quite frankly I felt it was a bit tacky. The French and Italians ate it up though, and the church was making a good living, so it seemed harmless, even a potentially good way to share black culture with  tourists. The service itself may have been staged for the visitors, but the players were mostly recovering addicts who had been saved.

There was something spiritually uplifting about their voices and stories. I was reluctant, but got into it and enjoyed the whole experience immensely. It was hot, and with sweat pouring down my back I decided to join in with the show, singing, swaying, clapping and amen-ing, giving the clients the best of American culture…after all, they seemed to love jazz/gospel and black history passionately and I wanted to support that.

After the sweat dried a bit, a fried-food fest followed at a nearby eatery. We stopped in front of the famous Apollo Theater for photo ops and got to ogle the Clinton Foundation headquarters. I took a small group shopping on 125th street for bargains. I still have mixed feeling about the whole thing but I’m glad the folks are making a decent living. It was, despite my misgivings, a truly American experience for foreigners and well worth the price of the ticket.

I was visiting my good friend and her family recently and they decided to take me on a bike ride on the stellar Norwottuck Bike Trail, a 9.5-mile path linking Northampton, Hadley, and Amherst.  Norwottuck, the Native American name for Northampton means the midst of the river.

We set out on a humid day, ready for a mellow ride, their house was just a block from the entrance to the trail which made departure easy. Living in San Francisco, I’m unused to flat trails and enjoyed the fast and smooth ride and the natural breeze given the weather. Crossing an old train bridge was novel, and with a view of the river it made a perfect rest point and photo op. We passed families, dog walkers, folks of all shapes and sizes enjoying being out  and active.

Our journey took us to Hadley where we climbed the dike to the Connecticut River, wildflowers hugging the shore and kayakers paddling in the distance. I was surprised by the huge display of American flags covering the Colonial Houses. It was Memorial Day weekend, but I had assumed that the lefty politics of the area would preclude ostentatious displays of Americana patriotism. Apparently, though, Amherst has a large military population.

It was asparagus season, and I bought a bunch of asparagus grass to bring back to my mom in NYC. I loved the sign on the stand and the honor system of payment.

On the way back, we stopped at a trendy Woodstar Cafe in Northampton. My friends bumped into loads of their friends and colleagues, as I relished the superb coffee. We returned home and soon thereafter I hopped on Amtrak with my bundle of asparagus headed for the Big Apple. Over the years I have written stories about Rails to Trails in Washington DC, Monterey, CA and Boston, it was satisfying to finally enjoy the benefits of this great program.

My sister moved to Williamsburg, Brooklyn from Manhattan more than 15 years ago. She shared a cute 1BR apartment and paid a fraction of Manhattan rental rates. Ownership of a yoga studio, a marriage, and two kids later, she still lives in Williamsburg, but now in a loft overlooking the Williamsburg Bridge. The area has changed, from a bustling Eastern European immigrant crowd, to hipsters and artists… to hipsters and artists with kids.

I left New York before Williamsburg became one of the cool hotspots, and every time I return I marvel at the reinvention of the neighborhood.

A couple stops on the G train from Manhattan, Williamsburg was first an artist magnet in the 1970s. Drawn by the relatively low rents, large studio spaces and convenient transportation, many moved to the area.  This continued through the 1980s and increased dramatically in the 1990s, as other cool artist havens such as SoHo and the East Village became gentrified. Now, times are tough and trustafarian artists are having to make ends meet in different ways.

Today, Williamsburg is fast becoming the New Williamsburg, as a recent New York Times Style Magazine article boasts. Yes, I’m referring to the 18th century, Colonial Williamsburg. Apparently, folks are harking back to old times and resurrecting forgotten trades such as pickling vegetables, butchering their own pigs, beekeeping, glassblowing and perfume making.

There are still the funky shops, cool bars and gourmet eateries. Bars with great names, such as the Alligator Lounge, Bodega, Cornichon or The Gutter (the first bowling alley to open in Brooklyn in 50 years) dot the cityscape.

One of our favorite spots is a Thai place named Sea, where you can get litchi martinis and let the kids enjoy the coveted giant swings. One hot summer day I took my son to a swanky old restaurant bar and bought him an egg cream. I had gone on and on about how special the beverage  was to me and to Brooklyn lore; he hated it. A classic parental faux pas, but I still remember the cozy ambiance and distinctive hispter Brooklyn vibe in the renovated old joint. 

Galleries, music venues and small designer stores still draw tourists and locals alike, as does the stellar view of Manhattan. The best comparison to  Williamsburg, Virginia, however, is perhaps in the facial hair.  If you squint and Photoshop out the saggy pants and iphones, the mutton chops, fanciful mustaches, goatees and sideburns of the locals scream blacksmith from the 1780s!

Maybe it was the long bus ride that had warped my ability to make sense of my surroundings, or it could have been my diet of magic realism literature I was on at the time, but the scene I wound through that night presented the kind of phantasmagoria that can induce hallucinations. Was everyone in costume? Was it a warmup for Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead? Colors flashed by, shouts and laughter and the melodious rhythms of Spanish ricocheted off balconied buildings. Smoke from street stalls carried the scent of grilled meat. And I continued to push my way, gently because this was a happy throng, across the plaza to the hotel.

When I squeezed through the doors into a busy lobby I learned I’d arrived in the middle of the Cervantes International Arts Festival. Tired as as I was, I knew I had to get out with the crowd. There was too much energy in the streets to do anything else.

And what a reward I received. I flowed with the masses to an open-air theater to watch a series of skits from Don Quixote under the stars. It didn’t matter that my mediocre Spanish wasn’t up to the task, I got most of the meaning through the actors’ delivery. When the curtain went down the fireworks went off, flames and sparks shooting everywhere, whirligigs spitting fire above the audience, the night erupting in celebration before the lights came up. I really did feel I was in the middle of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel.

This year the festival runs October 14 to November 1 with more than 2300 artists from 25 nations and 5 continents presenting opera, music, dance, theater, visual arts, film and academic activities.

During my few days in the city I went to many of the tourist sites — the catacombs to look at the mummies, Diego Rivera’s house and museum, the tunnels that draw off the traffic to make the center of the city a pedestrian zone, Callejón del Beso (the Alley of the Kiss) on a lane so narrow lovers are said to be able to kiss across it from their balconies, the viewpoint on San Miguel hill commemorating the beginning of the Mexican War of Independence — but what really stayed with me was the  flamboyant energy of the Cervantes Festival, a party I’d known nothing about, but remember every autumn.

Then the sound of music, energetic strings and the fast rhythms of a tabla pulled me on. It sounded live, so I poked my head around a corner looking for the source. Sure enough, tucked into a corner of the lobby that opened onto the restaurant a quartet of women dressed in headscarves were playing. One strummed a 12-stringed lute-like instrument called an oud, another plucked a flat zither-like instrument, a third bowed a cello, the fourth beat a tabla.

I stood and listened a moment until the restaurant host appeared and asked if I wanted a table. No, I didn’t, I just wanted to enjoy the music a moment.

“Here, sit,” he said, motioning to a nearby table.

“No, no need,” I replied, not wanting to occupy his space without ordering something.

“No, please,” he repeated as he moved toward the table, hand gesturing to a chair. When he pulled it out and turned it toward the musicians I gave in, sat, and enjoyed many moments of inspiring local music.

Later that evening, after a meal in the same restaurant, I headed for the elevator only to encounter another string quartet, this composed of four men, two violins, a viola, and a cello, playing a Mozart concerto. Their music filled the room and I stood, admiring, able to leave only when they finished the piece.

Steve is a contributing editor for Rolling Stone. The flap copy on his book says: “Knopper, who has been writing about the industry for more than ten years, has unparalleled access to those intimately involved in the music world’s highs and lows…From the birth of the compact disc, through the explosion of CD sales in the ’80s and ’90s, the emergence of Napster, and the secret talks that led to iTunes, to the current collapse of the industry as CD sales plummet, Knopper takes us inside the boardrooms, recording studios, private estates, garage computer labs, company jets, corporate infighting, and secret deals of the big names and behind-the-scenes players who made it all happen.”

And his conversation with Terry Gross is great. Listen here.