A little local flavor, a lot of sore muscles

— -- Best experience

Glossy travel magazines promise to reveal the secret of experiencing a place like a local. Here's the reality: If you want a truly local experience, you need to know a local.

Which was my good fortune in September when I visited Turin, Italy, my friend Paolo's hometown. We stopped to smell the truffles in nearby Alba, where an annual festival dedicated to the rare fungi unleashes a Fellini-esque torrent of medieval-style parades and donkey racing. We drove through the Italian Alps, where the air smelled of early snow and wood smoke, and had tea in a warm and wonderful centuries-old farmhouse.

But mostly, we eased into the comfortable rhythms of everyday life, lingering over delicious multi-course meals cooked by his mother, Teresita, strolling though Turin's sprawling plazas and eating gallons of creamy gelato. La dolce vita, indeed.

Worst experience

Sometimes I don't read the fine print. Heck, sometimes I don't even read the big print. And so imagine my surprise when a week before embarking on a guided five-day bicycle tour, I glanced at the itinerary and discovered the daily rides ranged from 30 to 60 miles.

I'd chosen this particular tour because A) it was relatively inexpensive, and B) it was in Vermont, where August temperatures were bound to be pleasant. But the farthest my infrequent cycling forays had ever propelled me was 20-odd miles on groomed, flat trails. Plus, I'd neglected to fully consider Vermont's topography. It is, after all, called the Green Mountain State.

As anticipated, the scenery was postcard-perfect. Fellow cyclists were a congenial bunch. And days of vigorous activity ended with pat-yourself-on-the-back-and-have-a-second-dessert evenings. Regardless, I have yet to get back on that bike.

Most unexpected experience

I'd heard the warnings long before stepping foot inside the dizzying labyrinth that is Istanbul's Tourist Central. "You'll never get the best of a merchant in the Grand Bazaar," a longtime American resident and expert shopper had told me.

Not a problem, because I had no intention of buying anything, least of all a Turkish carpet. Until I met Hakan Evin, that is. Ten minutes into our conversation about knots per square inch, flat-weave techniques and the like, I looked him in the eye and said, "Hakan, I want you to sell me a carpet."

And so he did. It's a beautiful old Hereke, the best of the Turkish rug types, they say, and it cost a pretty penny.

The carpet dealer was in Washington recently, and we had dinner with some Army intelligence types. (Evin is extremely well-connected.) Evin asked the group if we'd like to take a Blue Cruise with him in Turkey this summer. I'd love to. But I'm afraid I'd be tempted to let him sell me the boat.

Best bargain

How far will a dollar go? From Washington to New York, that's how far. Or at least that's where I went on a measly buck in March, after snagging an introductory fare on Greyhound's new BoltBus service. Even at the full $25 one-way fare, the bus (which also serves Philadelphia and Boston) is a bona-fide bargain.