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If Las Vegas dealt in baklavas instead of money, it would look like Jasmatiyah Street in Damascus.

Everything is big and flashy. Nut-filled pastries are stack higher than people. Rolls of pistachios in vermicelli dough thicker than a forearm beckon stares of disbelief.

In one of many shops, bakers in ethnic headdress prepare halawat with ashta cream. A giant LCD screen above him plays a making-of-sweets promotional reel.

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Across the street, another store competes with human numbers. Counters with trays filled with evert kind of dessert spill onto the sidewalk, each manned my large, bearded, jolly men. They each offer passersby a free sample. It’s all delicious.

And in the middle of it all is one shop that stands quietly with the dignity of its name. “That’s Daoud Brothers,” our host told us. “They make the best sweets in Syria.” The interior decor alone should earn it UNESCO World Heritage status.

Dieters and diabetics: you have been warned.

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The inside of Daoud Brothers sweet shop on Jasmatiyah Street.

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We arrived in Tripoli and for the first time in two Lebanese weeks, we felt like we were in the Middle East.

The look-at-me designer shops that water down Beirut were nowhere in sight. There were no Pepsi billboards or golden arches, or other homogenizers of Western culture in the old city.

The main city square dominated by an old clock tower was abuzz with messengers, merchants transporting goods and ideas, soldiers on coffee break, all the activity you’d expect to see 200 years ago in a touristic corner that hasn’t fallen to tourism.

The most prominent street-level commercial space on this square was populated not by a Starbucks or KFC, but by old men sitting around plastic tables smoking narguileh and playing cards.

There was an undefinable haze in the air that gave all the crumbling stone arches a dreamy look. I felt like I was in someone’s recollection of a vague Arabian memory.

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One of the few touristy touches in Tripoli, a remake of a traditional tea den in the Khan el-Saboun soap market. It’s still cool, though.

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There are many reasons to spend a few days in Tripoli:

The narrow covered corridors of the old city that branch into tiny passageways and may lead to an underground mosque, a section of the souk, or someone’s front yard.

The 700-year old abandoned Turkish baths that can only be accessed by asking an old man in a loose turban to reveal the entrance behind a soda machine.

The smells of cardamon, coffee, cheese and sesame that puff from pushcarts.

The sellers of said coffee pushcarts who, when approached by a pair of foreigners, offer a complimentary cup instead of charging double.

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The Great Mosque in Tripoli’s old city.

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The countless sweet shops, from simple, unassuming holes-in-the-wall to velvet-upholstered palaces, all of them delicious, and that do brisk business even though every Lebanese you meet say they never eat Lebanese sweets.

The labyrinthine souk that still sells fish, fruits, jewelry, and other ephemera of everyday use, and where sellers still believe that a friendly smile is all they need to lure a foreign-looking shopper.

The Akra chain of restaurants, which always inhabit perfectly-lit, arched stone buildings, and offer high-end versions of peasant dishes like fatteh, hommos, and foul beans.

The Crusades-era castle that looms over a decaying cluster of slum homes perched helter-skelter on a hillside.

Said slum where you could be greeted by a curious old lady one moment, mobbed by friendly boys playing football the next, and ten steps later interrogated by scowling Shia women suspicious of any Westerners.

And finally, the faint suspicion when leaving that I could gladly spend many more days doing the same thing over and over again.

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A 700-year old Turkish bath, abandoned and crumbling.

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It’s a shame that so many tourists come to Byblos on a day trip. This is a town that begs for slow, aimless wandering, both during daytime and at night.

It’s an easy mistake to make, though. The historical part of Byblos, and the only one of interest, really, is barely the size of five city blocks. You’re greeted by a souk selling bland clothing, the usual souvenirs, overpriced cafés, and one interesting bookstore specializing in Lebanese literature.

But it’s not the shopping that stirs you, it’s the perfectly resorted stonework of the houses that glow ochre in the Mediterranean light. You can almost picture Romans, Persians, Ottomans, or any of the many civilizations that traipsed though Lebanon haggling for dates. I say almost because the plastic Christmas trees and snowmen the city scattered on the souk destroy any possibility of creative visualization.

The souk ends in a small plaza with an expensive-looking restaurant, an ancient Orthodox church to the right and the main archaeological site to the left. This is where the magic of Byblos converges. From here you can take one of four ways down stony walkways and get happily lost for hours.

We went straight and walked down a grove-covered stairways that leads to the marina. There’s stuff to look at everywhere: a stone chapel no larger than a minivan with a Portuguese name, Nossa Senhora da Penna. Two shops selling fish fossils, stairways leading to rooftops, and locked gates for gardens with vines, lemon trees, and old pottery hanging from the walls.

The marina is quickly being claimed by high-end restaurants and hotels, but retains some crumbling charm, like a Phoenician watchtower that you can climb and enjoy the view for a few minutes before a lazy-eyed fisherman with Popeye forearms hisses at you to come down.

We walked along the water across several elevated seafood restaurants. It was a chilly December afternoon but couples happily downed wine and calamari on the outdoor patios. At the north end is a hotel that succumbed to the fad of combining old stone structures with sleek modern elements like glass balconies and wooden parapets.

It looked grand at any rate, and workers were still tapping the last finishing tiles on the front entrance. The interior was plush enough for movie stars. The concierge, quickly noting our dazzled state and our scrappy backpacker attire, scrambled to intercept us.

“Can I help you,” he said in that vaguely sardonic tone of someone who thinks we’re clearly in the wrong place.

“We were drawn by the decor,” I said in my politest tone. “Is this a hotel or a restaurant or what?”

“Well, both,” the barrel-chested concierge said. “It’s a five-star hotel,” he added, quickly dashing any idea we might harbour of sticking around. “We’re preparing for a special dinner tonight.”

I asked if we could take a quick look around, and he invited us to admire the floor of the dining area. From far it looked like a glass floor with blue lights underneath. But the glass revealed the foundations of a bronze-age settlement, neat lines of unearthed stones in square arrangements. Even the tables were glass so guests could admire their choice of accommodation during dinner.

Further down the dining room was three exquisite sofas and a coffee table with picture books of Lebanon. We couldn’t resist and started leafing through one. Waiters dashed around us setting cutlery and moving chairs.

“You must have misunderstood me,” a voice said above us. It was the concierge. “I said you could look at the floor. But you can’t sit here unless you buy something.”

We looked around and there were no guests that could be potentially repulsed by my Mountain Equipment Coop daypack and four-day stubble. Judging by the state of the room, it was still several hours until the dinner started.

“Sorry, it’s policy,” the concierge said, as though that would soften our expusion.

On the way out, we walked by a manager-looking man, his eyes fixed at his shoes, his lips stretched into a forced smile, the clear mark of a supervisor who just used a minion to do the unpleasant work won’t.

Night fell and the town was perfectly lit. Walkways were deserted and led us to happy places like an old Maronite church, narrow stairways, and tree-covered corridors between restored homes of what must be very rich people. A group of teens babbled in Arabic near a tiny stone mosque where two men stood silently inside.

Else, it was eerily quiet. We were glad that few visitors stay the night, especially during the winter low season. It was like walking through a sleeping Medieval town minus the plague and religious persecution.

We eventually ambled back to the plaza. A few people clustered inside cafes, smoking narguileh and drinking coffee. The Crusades fortress and the Roman columns at the archaeological site was gorgeously lit. The site itself, with is many Phoenician ruins, deep, accessible tombs with huge monolithic sarcophagi, and a heart-stopping view of the Mediterranean sunset from the fortress is worth a travel book on its own.

This was an experience we would repeat the next day, during the early day’s light and at sunset.

And it felt like a whole different town at each time.

Blame it on the Saudis. That’s what the Lebanese do.

The most striking first impression of Beirut is the number of cranes deployed for new luxury condos. Dubai usually gets the fame for unfettered construction, but we were in Dubai, and it’s nothing like this.

It doesn’t make sense. Lebanon is at peace, but for how long is anyone’s guess. The border with Israel is still hot. Tensions could flare at any moment when a UN tribunal issues the first accusations on the assassination of Rafik Hariri, the prime minister slain in a car bomb in 2006. Everyone expects Hezbollah to be fingered, and the militant group swore trouble as such.

A place with this much political uncertainty should not, logically, have this much economic confidence. Too many buildings pockmarked by the civil war haven’t been mended. The electricity doesn’t work half the time, for crying out loud.

Every Lebanese we spoke with say it’s all spurred by Gulf Arabs who build, sell, and get out. But probe a little further and you find that many Lebanese – those with two passports who can easily duck out if things get hairy – do have a hand in Beirut’s bewildering construction boom.

But that’s Lebanon for you. In a place where peacetime is as rare as hot sunny days in Canada, the people learned to make use of every bomb-free moment.

This naturally goes to its absurd extreme. Beirut’s main districts are lined with designer shops, sleek bars and restaurants where an appetizer costs as much as a day’s budget in Vietnam. The souk in the old city hardly merits the name; it’s a mall for Hermès and Burberry to claim some Arabian cachet.

Young people are fabulously dressed to sip coffee and smoke narguileh. And when another daily blackout darkens the humbler neighbourhoods, the lights keep burning bright in the pubs of Gemmayze and Monot Street, where the nation’s elite go to be seen.

You start to think that things are so expensive in Lebanon because every serious business has to pay two electricity bills: one for the utility and the other for the diesel generators that hum continuously in the basement.

Either this country is suffering the world’s greatest case of mass denial, or the Lebanese are implacable, refusing to let something as banal as unreliable power interfere with their lifestyle.

This staged glitz on top of a shaky foundation reminds me of that scene in Downfall when Eva Braun urges her party guests to dance while Allied mortars shake the streets just outside.

The only difference is that Braun couldn’t accept that it was all over. The Lebanese know that at any moment, this could all go away.

Good on them for enjoying while they can.

A Kathakali actor performing at the Mudra cultural centre in Kumily.

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Convenience rules over the mountain town of Kumily, in the southern Indian state of Kerala. Most Keralan specialties, from spices, to wildlife, to theatre to martial arts can be found within its five or six streets. This makes Kummily a cultural Wal-Mart of South India.

But like any all-in-one, each component is of doubtful quality.

The town

Kumily is the base for exploring the Thekkady wildlife sanctuary, and has morphed completely into a tourist hub. Four main businesses line its streets: hotels, restaurants, Kashmiri textiles, and spices. Like any good Kerala tourist town, Ayurvedic spas are a dime a dozen.

Still, the town has a relaxed feel, where auto-rickshaws calmly wait for street cows saunter out of the way. Goats relax in front of restaurant doors and school children are always walking to and fro.

One of many tea plantations on the road from Kottayam to Kumily.

The park

Tourist brochures offer guided hikes, elephant rides, boat trips on the park’s reservoir, night safaris and tiger sightings. A kindly Muslim who works for the state tourist bureau discouraged me from half those activities.

The tigers, he said, are rare to spot, having migrated away from the human activity. The boat trips were crowded with Indian tourists and the night safari, in his words, were “not really worth it.”

Result: I did none of it.

The spices

Kumily’s cool mountain climate is ideal for the cultivation of spices and tea. It’s a major hub for the spice trade, and Indians from all over come to buy in bulk. Half the town’s stores are spice merchants, and it leaves one wondering how each one can make a living. But they do. There are always people, white or brown, negotiating a deal with the sellers.

Merchants insist they have a standard-grade batch of cardamon, cinnamon and cloves, and a premium organic stash.  My experience with other developing countries taught me that what is often sold as organic is the industrial stuff with a different label and a higher price tag. Unless you go with an expert, it’s hard to tell if the spices, oils and powder mixes are of good quality.

As an extra money maker, some sellers offer spice garden tours. A guide takes you through a dense patch of forest and points out the different spice bushes and trees. Again, this is of variable quality. In one tour, which sot me 200 rupees, a bored-looking woman simply names each plant and had be taste a piece of it.

Unsatisfied, I went to another man, who explained with knowledge and enthusiasm how each plant is cultivated, how the spices are used in food and their medicinal properties in Ayurvedic healing. It cost me 100 rupees.

A black/white/green pepper plant at a spice garden.

The culture

Kumily has two cultural houses with daily shows in Kathakali, the colourful and voiceless Keralan theatre that recounts tales from the Hindu epics, and Kalari, the spectacular Keralan martial art.

I watched both at the Mudra Cultural Centre, and again a the Kalari show at the rival and neighbouring house. The Kalari was identical: the sword-fights, fire dancing, displays of acrobatics and disarming of a knife-wielding opponent were exactly the same. It made me suspect both houses are owned by the same company built to accommodate the high demand.

The Kathakali was fascinating and well-explained, but I had the feeling it was abbreviated and simplified for tourists.

Kalari fighters prepare for a demonstration with fire.

The summary

Fro the time-crunched traveler who wants a concentrated South Indian experience, Kumily is perfect. The cool weather offers a lovely respite from the searing heat of the coast. Its position at the border with Tamil Nadu State is also ideal for moving on.

Just don’t expect to come away fulfilled by an authentic cultural contact.

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It felt like the “work chic” and “party dress” pages of a BCBG catalog had sprung to life with thousands of women around me.

Not that their styles are particularly trendy. But what they lack in daring they compensate with good taste and elegance. What I saw was an excess of fine fabrics, tailored pants, uber-feminine dresses and hardly any jeans. The accessories were always smart and exact.

It’s also no handicap that the women had, in great numbers, slim bodies on which anything looks good. The financial district, in the heart of the city, is where men and women triumph in the looks department.

It was fun doing a street fashion shoot. Many women, by modesty of shyness, didn’t want to be photographed. But I like to think that with or without their participation, I gave a nice ego boost to women who are probably seldom recognized or complimented, inside or outside their borders.

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Longest urban beach
By a sea of rickshaw fumes
Get me out of here.

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Mahabalipuram

Ancient monoliths
Sculpted by fair artistry
One day is enough.

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Pondicherry

France meets India
Joie de vivre in the ashram
Can’t wait for a nap.

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Madurai

The skyline glistens
Noble city of temples
One temple, really.

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Kanyakumari

Marriage of three seas
Before the edge of the world
That’s one big statue.

It’s Singapore minus the obsessive cleanliness, with a healthy dose of that Southeast Asian chaos we love so well. It has a sparkling monorail, the incredible Petronas Towers (oh how they sparkle at night), glitzy arcades with fancy restos, but plenty of raucous street vendors to balance it out.

And the food!

We spent 17 hours there between Singapore and India – Air Asia flights from KL to Chennai are dirt cheap. We cherished every second.

Click the images below to see a slideshow.

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What a farce. Singaporeans take their pleasure very seriously. Venture past the tourist trail of Chinatown, the malls of Orchard Rd. and the overpriced cafés of Sentosa Island and you’ll a city contending for a spot among the great capitals of fun.

If you’re there, don’t miss these delights:

Seafood at East Coast Park

The food stalls at East Coast Park specialize in the fruits of the ocean. You’ll find dozens of hawkers serving up local specialties like chilli stingray, pepper crab, and prawns, along with Singapore classics like satay and fried oysters.

Buddha Tooth Relic Temple

Singapore’s Chinatown doesn’t really deserve the name. It’s too clean, too orderly, too colour-coordinated to be a Chinatown. But it’s centrepiece, the Buddha Tooth Relic Temple, is a treat. The main floor, the worship hall, is intensely ornate, while the upper floors offer exhibits on Buddhism.

The namesake display, the Buddha’s tooth relic, is enclosed in a sealed shrine. Holiness drips from the walls.

Cable-skiing at the lake

Actually, before your seafood session, work up an appetite cable-skiing at the lake on East Coast Park. It’s like water skiing with robots instead of boats. You’re pulled by a rope attached to a cable system that rotates continuously around the lake, passing over jumps and ramps.

It costs $32 SGD for one hour and is loads of fun.

Asian Civilizations Museum

The Southeast Asian backpacker trail takes you through several countries of contrasting cultures. This museum does a fine job of putting it all together, giving your trip a historical and cultural context.

Pulau Ubin

A short bumboat ride from the mainland is Pulau Ubin, a little island that reminds Singaporeans what nature looks like. Spared from the bulldozers of condo developers, it’s a leafy getaway where the sound of crickets and cicadas take over from engines and horns.

Visitors can rent bikes to explore the island, eat some decent seafood, and see the Chek Jawa wetland a mini-ecosystem of anemone, algae and crabs that shows itself at low tide.

Five-star street food

A national dish of Singapore is the Hainanese chicken rice, and few serve it up better than Five Star Chicken Rice on East Coast Rd. near Kantong Village. Locals and expats swarm the sidewalk tables and order portion after portion of the slow-cooked bird.

But the area is a big eating hub with lots of other quality cheap eats. Try the laksa at 328 Katong Laksa a few blocks away.

Free luxuries

At the time of writing, the Marina Bay Sands, a mammoth shopping-casino complex was still under construction, but some shops open for business. Some of them offer generous free samples of luxury foods.

Like Yummi House. They specialize in high-end honeys from around the world. One pot costs $120 SGD. But they will gladly dissolve a big spoonful in hot water, chill it with ice, and give it to you for nothing. It’s exquisite.

Next door is a tea shop with tea sets priced in the thousands. Again, enjoy some samples on the house.

Big desserts

In the Chinese neighbourhood of Bugis you’ll find Ah Chew Desserts, a landmark with locals. (Notice a big focus on food? Get used to it in Singapore) They serve delicious sweets like grass jelly, bean curd, and several flavours of shaved ice with fruit.

It’s at 1 Liang Seah Street #01-11

The most fondled Buddha in Singapore is in Bugis.

Cosplay café

This one is more for the blokes, but girls can have some fun as well. In Chinatown, there’s a cosplay café where girls dressed as characters of Japanese male fantasy dote on you through the night. Clients can have their food hand-spooned to them by these girls, for a frugal $1 a bite.

The A87 Café and Bar is at 108 Tajong Pagar Rd.

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No-one ever goes hungry in Singapore. No-one’s ever given the chance.

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Act 1, Scene 1

They call it street food because you can vaguely see the street from your table. Lau Pa Sat is the main “hawker centre” in Singapore’s financial core, an old market converted into a food court with close to 50 stalls spanning Asian cuisine.

Each stall is neatly enclosed with glass and a luminous sign showing pictures of their fare. Desmond, a local lawyer we befriended, negotiated the clutter of tables and humans with ease despite his wheelchair.

“The first order of business is to find a table,” he counseled.

A tall order. The place was mad with the lunchtime rush. But I spotted an empty table among the throngs. How civilized, I thought. They place a wet napkin pack at each place of an empty table.

When I quickly took a seat, a severe Chinese man shook his finger while barking something in Singlish. I knew it was Singlish because Wikipedia told me they sometimes add urgency to sentences with “lah” or “mah”.

“That table isn’t free,” Desmond said. It’s Singapore custom, we learned, to reserve a seat with napkins while you shop for grub.

Act 1, Scene 2

“So what’s the local specialty,” I asked Desmond while eyeing some red lacquered ducks hanging seductively from hooks at a nearby stall. I could almost taste the Chinese five spices.

Lawyers are good at reading body language, and Desmond promptly ordered one. He wheeled himself to a neighbouring stall and ordered two more dishes: fried oysters and char kway teow. Then he dropped by a fritter stand and bought three battered and fried bananas.

Singaporeans are in a hurry. Always an appointment to catch, people to see. Unlike their Southeast Asian neighbours, you rarely see a Singaporean just sitting around. As such, they don’t have much time to eat, which is why they generously lubricate their food to reduce chewing times.

We felt like we had made out with greasy frying pans, but it was all very tasty. The duck, especially, was stupendous. There was food left on the plates. Two bananas uneaten.

“Shall we get something else,” Desmond asked. We politely laughed at his little joke. His face turned puzzled.

Singaporeans don’t joke. Not about food.

Act 2, Scene 1

Late nights mean late breakfasts, so we usually hit the streets around noon with bellies full. But when we hooked up with a gentle Singaporean boy we hosted in Montreal via Counchsurfing, he was hungry for lunch.

“There’s a place here famous for carrot cakes,” Daniel said after we met at a hawker centre in Little India. “Want some?”

“Get some for yourself and we’ll have a taste,” I replied.

He vanished for five minutes and returned with two plates. One had a stir-fried mess of white starchy cubes, grated carrots, and spring onions. The other was the same thing, but blackened by soya sauce.

Those are carrot cakes.

“When I was younger, I liked the black one more,” he said. “Today I prefer the white.”

Indeed, the white one was more savoury, loaded with garlic and spices. The black brother was notably sweet. Both were fantastically greasy.

He excused himself again and returned with rojak, a fruit and vegetable salad topped with peanut sauce.

We left two-thirds of each plate untouched. Any more would require an emergency stomach pump or bulimia. “Should we get something else,” Daniel asked.

Okay, they like to mess with tourists, we thought. It’s the national prank. You gotta have some outlet among all this order, all this cleanliness, all these rules.

Daniel got up, and again, after five minutes, returned with two bowls. One was filled with a black jelly-like noodle with ice cubes. The other a white, airy cream. Grass jelly and bean curd.

Both desserts were left 80 percent intact.

Act 2, Scene 2

The cash register at Ah Chew Desserts randomly selects a customer for a chance to win a second treat. I was chosen after paying for my almond paste with sesame rice balls and Daniel’s mango with sago pellets.

The owner told me to insert a rubber ball into a glass case filled with pegs. Quantum physics and gravity would then bounce the ball around until it fell into one of eight slots on the bottom. My ball fell into “Grass jelly with fruits”.

The owner then stamped the back of my receipt: valid for a free dessert up to 30 days from date of first purchase. Awesome. I could come back tomorrow.

Five minutes into my tasty almond paste – more of a cold soup, really – a waitress brings a bowl heaping with grass jelly and cubed pineapples, strawberries, and watermelon. She demands my stamped ticket.

“What,” she asked incredulously when I told her I didn’t want it right now. “You’re only having one?”

A hawker stall in Singapore. Every seller is given a letter grade on cleanliness.

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Act 3

Il Lido is a restaurant at the Sentosa Golf Club, a rich man’s playground at an islet south of Singapore’s mainland. We went as guests of local lawyers and entrepreneurs we befriended.

Desmond, a consummate lover of fine wines, suggested we all order the tasting menu, as he had brought four wines to pair with each course.

It started with a slice of pan-seared tuna, then two grilled scallops with crispy prosciutto, followed by tagliatelle with tomato lobster sauce, beef tenderloin steaks, and finished with lava cake and ice cream. Capuccinos and dessert wine for the cap.

In Singapore, any discussion, no matter how arcane, will inevitably turn to eating. Everyone’s an expert. No one is ambivalent. Consensus: the food was average and portions too small.

The backpackers were bursting at the seams, but abstained. We didn’t want to appear weak.

The bill came. There was little arguing over who pays. One person volunteers, and the rest vow to send their shares over internet banking.

One of the guests looked at me and said, “Do you want some real food now? We’re going for dinner. There’s some good beef noodles there.”

Politely declined. The next day, we heard the three who went ordered five dishes.

Epilogue

Declining food in Singapore is is as effective as asking a computer to hurry up. Insisting is just as foolish.

It’s a city that is a country and has no countryside, no ancient mythologies, no history as a nation older than 190 years. Food, brought by its three main ethnic groups at a variety, cost and quality unrivaled anywhere else, is what unifies them.

Food is how Singaporeans express affection. It is how they honour guests. It is what they know best.

It’s the foreigner’s task to channel his bewilderment – and upset stomach – into flattery.

And if he wants to be stinking rich, figure out how these people never get fat and make a pill out of it.