I try to make it back to New York at least once a year, usually for events, this time my epic High School reunion. I often travel solo but this time my companion was my nine-year-old. There was so much I wanted to share with him and narrowing down our plans was painful…and true to how I roll, the best things happened serendipitously.

We walked by the West 4th Street Courts just a block from my mom’s apartment, a famous spot where Lew Alcindor played before becoming the great Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, an iconic public court where legions of other basketball greats have shot hoops over the years. Tucked in the the back are handball courts — I had forgotten about the New York obsession with the game. A tiny pinky ball, perhaps a glove and a wall, that’s all that’s needed. The sport, now called “American Handball”, is a big draw for beach goers, but as I traveled the city I was surprised to see so many courts in every borough. My son was fascinated and wanted to play. A player at W. 4 Street let him on the court to give it a try and he was smitten. The guy even gave him a ball — I LOVE NY.

He promptly lost it and I promised to buy him a ball and play with him, as I have fond memories of playing at Jones Beach, Florida and around town as a kid. In fact, we used to just play against the wall next to my mom’s apartment, which is now a a deluxe condo.

We didn’t seem to pass any sporting goods stores and the Woolworths and Lamstons of my youth have been taken over by Duane Reade drugstores and Chase Bank buildings. So the next day, as we came up from the subway, I decided, on a whim, to see if the local newsstand next to the courts might, per chance, sell them. I’m not sure what inspired me to think that was possible, but for two-dollars, the kid got a handball and thus the highlight of his trip began. We checked out a few courts and he carried his ball with him each day.

A visit to Coney Island with the cousins and a glorious walk on the boardwalk found this handball hotspot in Brighton Beach, perfect with the pink flowers framing the gritty urban court. I reveled in the moment remembering all those years ago, a time when NYC was hurting, crime was out of control and yet people congregated on stoops, listened to music together on boom boxes and the hardcore handball fanatics were part of the pulse of the city.

We stopped at Tatiana’s, a Russian cafe in Brighton Beach. The Nathans of my youth was still recovering from Hurricane Sandy, but after losing everything in the storm, Tatiana’s was up and running again. It felt like we were on the Black Sea or somewhere in Europe, not much English spoken and many families out for a Sunday stroll. We parked ourselves in the cafe and ordered strudel and tea and studied the crowd. We were clearly outsiders, despite my part Russian heritage, but once the piping hot tea and scrumptious cherry strudel arrived I was in heaven. The less than stellar Soviet style service was part of the experience. A walk down the High Street of Surf Avenue unveiled more treasures, a terrific little shop where I bought Armenian sour cherry jam, Hungarian salami and the Russian bread I love. On the street, a vendor sold what looked like Russian pirozhki, but when I tried to confirm the name I was met with much sourness. We bought cabbage, pork, spinach and cherry; it’s great how the sweet and savory co-mingle. They were a tad greasy, but for $1.50 each was a meal.

We climbed onto the elevated subway track laden with our purchases as the stunning spring light made the grimiest steel sparkle. The ride back was quick and edifying. I was captivated by the multi-ethnic faces and so many languages filling the car. It made me want to move back to New York.

Clearly, visiting struggling countries helps to boost their economy. For a place like Greece, it might well be how they can dig out of such a deep hole, promoting all that is so appealing when life for locals is so hard. So, when I read a recent New York Times article entitled “The Country Beckons Spaniards as Jobs in Cities Grow Scarce,” it was interesting to think about how long periods of strife can dramatically change the travel landscape.

I remember rolling in to sleepy Spanish villages, practically drunk on olives and olive oil and even sleeping under an olive tree one hot day. The small towns, just awakening from years under Franco, were still very old world, so authentic and charming. Spain of course has modernized quickly over the last 20 or so years, but much of the growth was isolated in the big cities and towns.

With jobs so scarce and the cost of living so high in cities like Madrid and Barcelona, many folks are moving back to the countryside and taking with them all their urban skills, savvy, appetite and spirit. The populations of many cities are shrinking, and conversely, the small towns are growing, blossoming with artists, entrepreneurs, new farmers and even circus performers!

So if you’re headed to Spain, after you have been to the Prado Museum, walked Las Ramblas and soaked in some Spanish urban culture, head to the smaller towns to savor the old world flavor or relish the new life! Triporati has more than 50 destinations in Spain to discover!

I had been itching to take the kids to the Tech Museum and my husband and I were intrigued by the Art Museum, so we decided to book a hotel room overnight and make a festive trip out of it between Christmas and New Year’s.

It had been raining for nearly two weeks, so we also had visions of a great hike if the skies cleared up. I called a close Cuban-American friend who knows San Jose well and happens to be a foodie. He was on it, and within half an hour recommended three eateries in the area, so I felt ready to go.

Just an hour or so south of San Francisco, San Jose these days is known as the heart of Silicon Valley.

We booked a room at the Hotel Valencia Santana Row, a chic contemporary hotel set amidst a European style pedestrian shopping street. The hotel was a block away from The Winchester Mystery House, a somewhat lost in time, local tourist attraction that seemed a bit cheesy and overpriced for our taste. I was worried that Santana Row might be a Disney-esque version of a European Pedestrian district but it was actually quite stylish, and all decked out for the holidays. Since our trip was short and specific, I had to resist my shopping urges, but many appealing stores beckoned me.

The hotel was slick and comfortable,  and my kids remarked on the leather pillows as we entered our room overlooking the patio. It’s fun to splurge for a night, close to home, on occasion. Despite the torrential downpour we made it to the pool and hot tub twice. Actually, my favorite time to soak and swim is when it’s cold, dark and rainy. The pool area had a Mediterranean feel and the outdoor shower was a nice touch. The little fitness room was much appreciated and we took advantage of it, making the most of our getaway.

In the evening, the patio looked welcoming with fire pits and a fountain in the center, but it was just too wet and cold for a nightcap. Instead, we tucked in and watched the Kennedy Center Honors on TV.

The San Jose Tech Museum is a must-see and we spent hours exploring the two floors of exhibits. The hands on, kid friendly stations were a big hit with my budding techies. My youngest son, aged 7, joined a group with a mock digestion project, simulating the route our food takes through our bodies. My older son designed a terrifying roller coaster circuit and both kids were mesmerized by a robot-artist working non-stop. We all wound up with portraits of ourselves after waiting in line with other bedraggled parents for what seemed like an hour.

The rain had pummeled the holiday display in the park and the holiday skating rink struck me as a rip-off at $15 a pop. Once we realized a soggy hike was not even possible, we headed for the San Jose Museum of Art and were really pleased with our choice. The museum was manageable, light and the staff super helpful. Two shows on view during our trip interested all four of us with lots of interactive features. The kids loved the gallery in the basement where they could build with legos, cards and blocks.

Lunch was at a local Coffee Shop called Flames, which had the feel of a real California diner from the ’50s or ’60s. My foodie friend had recommended Habana Cuba as one of his favorites and we had to agree. The food was really authentic and the kids’ menu made me so happy I wrote a review for a kids’ nutrition site called Well Kiddos. The pork melted in our mouths and the mojito was perfectly not too sweet. We also noshed at Race Street Fish Market, which seemed like a local institution. I’m not much for entirely fried meals but it was worth the sacrifice since all my boys are fish and chips monsters and I could get a broiled piece of fish. It was fun watching the crowd, only one hour from SF, but a world away.

Full of food, art and technology, we headed back home, thoroughly pleased with our mini-sojourn. It was just enough of a getaway to break up the long winter vacation and the waterlogged weather.

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!

The 1988 Calgary Winter Olympics was also a Canadian affair. It was the last Olympics where Cold War rivalries played out on the world sporting stage. It was the year of the Jamaican Bobsled team and Eddie the Eagle, the courageous Scottish everyman who soared in the ski jump, or at least gave it his best.

For Olympic nerds, like me, it was the year of the Battle of the Brians in figure skating where the American Brian Boitano won the gold. I remember most of all the amazing scenery, Lake Louise and the stunning aerial photography of the Canadian Rockies. A two-hour drive from Calgary, Banff is to Calgary what Whistler is to Vancouver.

The town of Banff was created by happenstance in the late 19th century when railway workers discovered hot mineral springs. Visitors came, and later it was designated a National Park. A majestic lodge, The Banff Springs Hotel, was built more than a century ago and has been dubbed the “Castle in the Rockies.”

Today the area appeals to the posh crowd.  Galleries, swanky shops and fine dining are as much a part of the experience as dog-sled rides, skating and hitting the slopes. Looking for the top things to do on a trip to the Canadian winter wonderland? Check out the CanadianRockies.net list of the top 11 attractions.

The oldest, in the French city of Strasbourg in Alsace on the German border, has been active since 1570. Georgia Hesse, in the San Francisco Chronicle, ably describes the appeal of such markets and the particular draw of Strasbourg, where visitors stroll the lanes where Goethe, Gutenberg, and Albert Schweitzer once wandered.

Many markets last through New Year’s Day and some even run through the Epiphany on January 6, but others close up shop on Christmas Eve, so hurry, time’s running out.

Simple embroidery decorated the shirt pocket. A buttonless slit ran from near the pocket to the collarless neckline. Cut like a t-shirt but elegant in its whiteness in the desert sun, the shirt flapped like a flag in his brown fingers.

I walked directly up to him as his eyes caught mine. He instantly brightened, knowing perhaps before I did that he would sell me that shirt.

“Hello my friend,” he said. “Look, very nice shirt for you.”

“Hello,” I said, reaching out to feel the fabric.

“It’s beautiful cotton, touch, you see. I give you good price.”

It was beautiful cotton, soft and plush yet light for the desert heat. The cartouche on the pocket was understated yet elegant, reflecting the reliefs of the temple I was about to visit.

He held it up to my shoulders to show it was the right size. I gestured to ask if I could try it on.

“Yes, yes. This is the right size. Nice for you.”

“Not now,” I said. “I have to catch the boat to the temple.”

I was using the oldest ruse in the book, deferring any decision until later, not facing the reality of the trade, the back and forth of false anguish and protestations of a price too high, an offer too low. Plus, maybe I didn’t really want the shirt, maybe he wouldn’t see me returning with the hordes of tourists.

“You come back, I give you good price. What is your name?”

“‘Larry,’” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Mohammed. You come back, I wait for you. I give you good price.”

We shook hands and looked into each other’s eyes. Mohammed had the face of an honest man, a good guy. It was the first rule of sales: make the customer like you.

I went off with the group and wandered about the temple on the hill dedicated to Osiris, returning filled with awe at the depth of the legend, the richness of ancient Egyptian life.

I’d also decided that I would pay no more than $10 for the shirt, because I didn’t need it, could get something similar for not much more money at home, and if it wasn’t a bargain I didn’t need to add it to my load of luggage.

When I’d climbed a few steps up the ramp on shore I spotted Mohammed, waiting in a line of merchants before the row of shops, scanning the crowds looking for me, the shirt draped over his arm.

I waited until he spotted me, knowing he would, and waved to him. His hand shot up, his face brightened, and he strode toward me.

“Come, come, my friend, I give you good price.”

We shook hands again, and rather than haggle on the street, as I expected we would, Mohammed led me up the road to his shop, the last one in the long row, the first when we got off the bus. When we stepped inside we were alone.

Again Mohammed held the shirt up against my shoulders to show it would fit. I took off my hat and glasses and set them aside, then took the shirt and pulled it on with Mohammed’s help. He was right, it did fit.

“I give you the shirt for only 150 Egyptian pounds. Very good price for you.”

Roughly thirty dollars.

“No, that’s way too much, Mohammed,” I said. “I’ll pay twenty pounds.” Less than five dollars.

“Oh, my friend, that’s not a good price. I must pay for the material and sewing, and something for me. You understand, I must make some profit. One hundred fifty is a good price for you.”

“No, Mohammed, 150 pounds is way too much. That’s very expensive. I will pay twenty pounds.”

It didn’t take long before Mohammed dropped to 140…130…120. I came up to 30…40…and I finally got to my last price, 50, but only when I told him I had to leave now, that he wanted too much.

“Okay, 50,” he said with a gentle hand to my arm as I started out of his shop.

“Do you have change?” I asked as I showed him a 100 pound note.

“Yes, yes,” he said, pulling a fistful of wadded bills out of his galibeyah. It took a moment but he found correct change, then reached for a plastic bag.

“No, no bag, Mohammed, I’ll put it in my pack. But  may I take  your photo?” I pulled out my camera to show him.

“Yes, yes,” he said. He backed up to his wall full of garments, a perfect background.

I took two shots of his handsome face, the rightward tilt suggesting tranquility, insouciance. We were friends now. We shook hands.

Then he reached to a rack behind and pulled out a red shirt, back to business. “Buy two, good price, this color—” he draped the shirt over my arm and reached back for a blue one “—this color also very nice on you.”

I handed the shirt back. “No, Mohammed, I need to go.”

He draped the red shirt over my arm again. “Good price, my friend, not fifty, forty for this one.”

Again I handed the shirt back, then headed out of the shop into the sunshine. Mohammed was right behind me.

He insisted I needed another shirt for such a good price. I was equally insistent that I didn’t need one. But the closer I got to the bus, the closer I got to offering him something and taking the shirt. Hey, it occurred to me, I could give it to my friend James.

I stopped short of the bus steps and said, “Twenty. I’ll give you twenty.”

“Oh, my friend—”

“Twenty,” I repeated. “No more.”

His friendly smile returned. “Okay, twenty,” he said, handing me the shirt. I gave him a 20 pound note, thanked him, and reached out my hand. He gripped it firmly, smiled, then turned and headed back to his shop.

On the bus I found James and held up the red shirt.

“James, do you like this shirt?”

“Yes. Very nice.”

“Do you like the color?”

“Yes.”

I tossed it to him. “It’s yours.”

And it was. For not much more than the cost of a coffee latte in San Francisco, it was no longer Mohammed’s shirt. Now it was James’s.