If sidewalk chalk viewing doesn’t sound like the highbrow art experience you have in mind, let me convince you otherwise. Imagine 1,000 students, prospective students, and alumni of a top-rated art school turn 850 of the park’s sidewalk squares into 850 canvases for an outdoor exhibit. Majors of photography, animation, jewelry design, and film all see a blank canvas in these “blocks.” Each SCAD competitor, individual or team, has the opportunity to express their creative diversity during this annual competition.

This is a perfect opportunity to witness local Savannah: A city animated by an eclectic population of city natives and hipster “Scaddies.” To add to this year’s package, the Forsyth Park Visitors Center opened its doors to the public this past February, after nearly 30 years of planning and renovations. (Long gone are the days of walking miles in search of a bottle of water and a public restroom.) The center also boasts the newly renovated outdoor performance stage, and a café managed by its famous neighbor across the street, the Mansion on Forsyth Park.

The “chalk-off” commences at 11:00 a.m. this Saturday. Contestants are given three hours to design, and the results of the competition are announced by 5:00 p.m. But even if you don’t witness the exhibit in the making, it remains until the rain clears the canvas for next year.

Photos: JT Blatty

Read more at the National Geographic Traveler’s Intelligent Travel Blog »

Picture yourself 140 feet above the ground, looking down on the historic quarters of Stockholm’s Gamla Stan (old town). You’re standing on the rooftop of the Old Parliament building, a 13th-century monument on the island of Riddarholmen. Secured by a safety harness to a narrow, metal track running along the perimeter of the roof, you begin to walk in single file behind your tour guide, sliding the safety leash along the track, only an arm’s length from the cast-iron spire of Riddarholmen’s old church, built by Franciscan monks in the 1200s.

With a 360-degree view of Stockholm, overlooking eight of 14 islands upon which the city was built, your guide begins to paint a canvas of Stockholm’s history, bringing it to life with the symbolic icons in view: The Royal Palace, the fortress of Gamla Stan, the three golden crowns of the Nobel Prize shining on the tower of the City Hall, and the 18th-century prison, which once housed over 600 inmates, but was converted into a hotel in 1975, offering a night behind bars for a reasonable price.

Now with the recent installment of guiding lights along the track, visitors can opt for an after-hours tour. The Dark Secrets of Stockholm tells stories of murder, mayhem, and mysterious ghost sightings from the city’s history.

Upplev Mer’s innovative approach to historic tourism has taken off since 2007. With the assistance of the Swedish National Property Board, an organization responsible for the preservation of Stockholm’s most historic monuments, Upplev was granted access to construct the original rooftop track, making a structure once closed to the public more than available to visitors.

“Our goal was to get people interested in history… from a different angle,” says Upplev Mer owner Anna Broman. So, far it seems to be working.

With a fully booked season in 2009, and the increasing demand of a tour that accommodates only 10-15 individuals at a time (due to track weight restrictions), Upplev is currently constructing a second track in Gamla Stan with a slightly different view, scheduled to debut in the spring or summer of 2010. This will coincide with the opening of their newest venue on the Old Parliament building’s tour, tailored for travelers looking to “tie the knot” in a non-traditional way. Rooftop Marriages will begin next spring with Princess Viktoria of Sweden’s marriage to Daniel Westerling on June 19th.

Getting There: Upplev Mer offers public tour bookings through their website, and private tours can be arranged by contacting them directly. The nighttime tours will be offered to the public on Thursdays and Saturdays starting in January and will cost about $60.

At the time I didn’t realize that 2009 is “Nature’s Year” in Sweden, a 100-year milestone celebrating Swedish national parks and the successful measures taken to preserve their diverse ecological landscapes.

Sweden was the first country in Europe to establish a national park, introducing their first nature conservation act in 1909 with the opening of nine parks the same year. This September they opened number 29, Kosterhavet on the southwest coast. It’s Sweden’s first marine national park, which protects the wildlife of the Koster Fjord channel.

Sweden’s national parks and nature reserves (over 3,200 reserves in total) cover 12% of the country’s surface area, and I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a diversity of stunning landscapes in such a small area and in such a short amount of time.

One day we were hiking a mountain peak surrounded by rifts and valleys carved by the ice age in Skuleskogen, the next day standing at the base of Sweden’s tallest waterfall in Njupeskär, and the next day throwing rocks into a freshwater spring at the flood plains of Färnebofjärden.

While Sweden’s EPA takes every measure to conserve their parks, they also strongly encourage the recreational use of them. Hiking trails and walking paths for every level and age weave through each of the parks, and the information centers accommodate travelers with maps, lodging and camping information, you name it. If you’re the outdoors type, I’d highly recommend a road trip through Sweden.

But it makes sense: In Sweden, all are encouraged to maximize usage of the outdoors under a common law privilege called the “right of public access,” or as the Swedes call it, “Allemansrätten.” You won’t find a “No Trespassing” sign anywhere around here: Even as a tourist I can wander from the main trail onto someone else’s property to pick blueberries, or if I’m driving the country roads I can pull over wherever I see fit to pitch a tent for the night, so long as I follow the few simple guidelines. For example, I can only use branches lying on the ground for a fire and cannot break a live limb, and I should maintain a distance of 70 meters from any house in view–it’s really just common sense stuff.

This privilege is definitely convenient for the northern Swedes: According to Biotech Sweden, the forests here produce an average of 500,000 tons of wild berries annually, of which only 2-4% are picked! The most common are blueberries, but a casual walk through a city park can also provide a handful of wild strawberries, raspberries, and black and red currants to munch on along the way. The lingonberries are also as plentiful as they are popular among the Swedes and are made into jam served with traditional dishes such as Swedish meatballs and Swedish pancakes.

There are also a few rare species that can only be found with a serious gatherer’s assistance. The cloudberry, a yellowish, tart fruit similar to the size and shape of a raspberry, is a delicacy in high demand internationally and grows deep in the northern forests of Sweden in marshes and bogs: Hence the name, as when you enter cloudberry zone it feels like you’re walking on top of the clouds.

The Swedes traditionally use the cloudberry to create jam as a warm topping for ice cream, or to prepare a special after-dinner aperitif. But as the chance for you to bounce on the clouds and pick them yourself is quite slim, you can find them on the dessert menus in restaurants or buy your own jar at a local market. They may be pricey but your palate will be grateful.

The last leg of our adventure was a drive from Kenya to Tanzania, where we would spend New Year’s Eve in the Ngorongoro Crater. As customary, we pulled over at the border for immigration, and immediately the locals crowded the van to an overwhelming point, begging for money, clothing, food, or anything we could offer. Mom instructed me to wait with my younger niece and brother while she pushed her way to the patrol shack with our passports in hand.

What I witnessed on her return is now a mental picture of my mother, forever frozen in time. With a huge smile on her face, surrounded by other smiling Africans trying to help her, she balanced a zoo of hand-carved wooden safari animals in her arms, trying not to drop them as she stumbled into the car. And then I noticed: She was no longer wearing her jacket, hat, or the shirt tied around her waist, and her shoes were gone. Her white socks caked with mud, she sat there sorting through the animals as if nothing was wrong. When we asked her about it, she just laughed and said, “I couldn’t give any money because I left it in here. They pointed to my shoes. Why not, I can get new ones? And look what they gave me, they’re for you all. Aren’t they cute!?”

That’s my mom.

A deployment into Iraq begins in Kuwait, where soldiers spend about two weeks preparing for movement north. Our movement north was to Tallil Air Base, an old Iraqi airfield that was about 20 kilometers from the city of An Nasiriyah, and walking distance from the historical remains of the ancient city of Ur.

Because we were a Combat Heavy Engineer unit (in civilian words, a construction unit), we were in a constant need of materials. I was the contractor for my unit, and once a week I would travel into downtown Nasiriyah with a team to purchase a “shopping list” of immediate needs from the local Iraqi vendors.

During one of these supply runs, we were parked in a dirt lot outside of a building downtown, waiting for Yassir, our translator, to join us. While we waited in the vehicle a local woman approached me on the passenger side, wearing a traditional cloak (an “abaya”) covering her from head to foot. I was used to being approached as a female soldier; I can only imagine that I was an abnormality to their culture. Crowds would flock to our vehicle on a regular basis, trying to get a glimpse, but this was the first time I had ever seen woman approach us. It was a rarity to even see an Iraqi woman in public, and if we did, she would be hiding in the background, avoiding eye contact and attempting to be out of sight.

Now here she was, one foot away from me, staring straight into my eyes without fear or hesitation. For the first time during the deployment I felt stripped of my uniform; it was as if for a moment we were somewhere else, forgetting the unfortunate circumstances surrounding us. She wanted to understand my world and my culture just as much as I wanted to understand hers. We could have been in the middle of a combat zone, as we were, or in a coffee shop in Washington D.C.

She carried a book under her arm, and as she smiled and nodded her head in a gesture, she opened it to a page and pushed it towards me. I didn’t understand what she wanted, but as I closed the book to read the cover, it became more than clear. It was a translation dictionary.

There hasn’t been a time in my life that I’ve cursed the barrier of language (and myself for not knowing them all) more than I did that day. Our brief encounter was interrupted only seconds later by Yassir’s return and the vehicle instantly cranking. I quickly placed the book in her hands and met her eyes to farewell, and in that moment I knew there was an understanding between us; an acceptance of our circumstances, and that our interaction would end where it began.

It’s been almost six years now, and I still think about what could have been said and shared between two people, two women for that matter, whose realities are so intensely different. But at the same time, right there, in that dirt parking lot in the middle of a combat zone in Iraq, we were exactly the same.

The Batala of Washington is the newest member of a much larger Batala family (and the first in the U.S.). The original Batala band was created in 1997 by Bahia native Giba Goncalves while he was living in Paris. There are now four Batala groups in France, five in the U.K., one in Spain, one in Brazil, and one in Angola. If you think you might be interested in joining the group in D.C. (no musical experience necessary), stop by and watch a rehearsal on a Saturday.

As a person who finds music to be one of the most powerful ways to experience the essence of a culture, I highly recommend checking out the Batala’s performance schedule, especially if Brazil is on your mind for future travels.

This year, the festival has two major changes. First, the bars will remain open on March 17 until 3 a.m., removing the city’s traditional 1 a.m. St. Patrick’s Day shutdown.

The next change could allow for some great mingling opportunities between locals and the tourists. For years the city has enforced a gated-off festival area on River Street where guests wait in line outside the barricades, pay their dues, and enter the party zone. While there are plenty of hangouts on River Street, locals tend to steer clear of this area during St. Patrick’s week. This year the gates will be lifted, and without these boundaries locals and tourists can socialize with each other.

If you’re one of the lucky tourists, you might even run into what I call the “Legends of Savannah.” The “Legends” are an older generation of locals, and the storytellers of the city. They are the ones who, as children, would pluck rings and coins washed up from old shipwrecks down on River Street, before pavement covered the sands. They are the ones who can get around faster by boat than by car, navigating through the maze of the Intracoastal Waterway as if they were driving the city streets, and they can make you a crab cake–from catching the crab to adding the perfect seasoning–from scratch. Look for these locals at 17hundred90, McDonough’s, and Pinkie Masters.

1. Do not stray from the crowds! Even if someone who seems perfectly cordial and trustworthy invites you to a party “around the corner,” or offers up his or her bathroom — or you think you know a shortcut through a dark alley or dimly lit and empty street. If you are not surrounded by tourists, you are a perfect target for the New Orleans predators. Stay where the action is.
2. Arrange a meeting point with your friends and family immediately upon arriving to the scene. It’s easy to be separated from your group during the festivities, whether you’re wandering through the zoo of people, or distractedly following the hot trail of a passing float for a pair of Mardi Gras underwear that you just HAVE to have. Do yourself a favor and pick out a rally point before this happens.
3. Do not carry your money, credit cards, or anything important tucked away in your back pocket, especially if you brave it up enough to hit Bourbon Street! This is the perfect opportunity to fall victim to the Mardi Gras pickpockets.
4. Be wary of the scam artists! If someone approaches you with the question, “I bet you $100 I know where you got your shoes” or any question along those lines, do yourself a favor and do not wager! Even if you purchased your shoes on Mars, they will get you every time with the infamous answer: “on your feet.” And at that point you may feel obliged to pay, because technically they are correct, aren’t they? Sometimes it’s even common to be forced into a service, such as someone offering a shoeshine, and before you know it they are shining your shoes and demand immediate payment (even if you said “no thanks” loud and clear). Avoid these folks as much as possible. The more you stall, the higher the chance of being pushed into a bad situation. Just keep on moving.
5. Petting the police officer’s horse is a serious no-no, unless you want to risk spending the night behind bars. The New Orleans cops are already more than likely irritated with the out of control and drunk tourists, especially the one who thinks it would be funny to slap and startle a horse. So even if you are just an animal lover wanting to reach out, keep your hands to yourself! It is not uncommon to be arrested for touching a cop’s horse in any shape or form, so just don’t do it.
6. Do not urinate in public, even if you are in a dark alley with no one around (and you shouldn’t be there in the first place if you read tip Number 1). You will be arrested. Everyone shares the pain of searching for a bathroom during Mardi Gras, so think in advance before you have to go. Try to locate the nearest bar, hotel, or Porto-Johns as soon as you arrive. You may even stumble across one of the hardcore festival champs who brings his own Porto-John on the back of a pickup truck. He might charge you to use it (so bring extra cash!), but it’s not hard to make new friends in New Orleans, so put on your friendly face.
7. Always have a cab number on hand. It’s nearly impossible to find a cab in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, so more than likely you will have to call one for a pickup. United and Yellow Cab are two of the major companies in New Orleans, so bring their numbers (and a cell phone) with you to the party. Better yet, ask your cab driver for his personal number before you exit, he might be able to work with you faster than waiting on a pickup from the main number.
8. Write down the vehicle number of your taxi. If you accidentally leave your wallet or camera in the backseat of the cab, your chances of seeing them again are much higher if you can tell the company which vehicle transported you. With this information they can page the driver immediately and your belongings might be recovered before another passenger takes their dibs. Without the information, you will anxiously hope for a nameless driver to clean the cab return your belongings to the lost and found at the end of his shift.
9. Do not fight over beads. Remember, at the end of the day they are just plastic, although somehow we’re convinced that they’re worth more than gold during the parades. Bottom line, it’s just not worth it. If you’re having a hard time catching beads, here’s a few pointers: if you see a group getting ready to hold a sign up to a passing by float, go stand next to them. They know someone behind the masks and are about to get buried under bags of beads and goodies.
10. Do not get arrested. Bottom line: You might laugh at the prospect now, but it’s not so uncommon to forget all common sense during Mardi Gras. If you do in fact get hauled away, it’s not going to be an overnight trip you can laugh about with your friends later. You’ll be there the rest of the weekend, at least. And you won’t be laughing about it.

But for those of you who are tempted to stick your toe in the madness without taking the full plunge, ensure you hit Frenchmen Street in the Marigny. It’s a perfect blend of the tourists who stumble over on foot from Bourbon Street, and the locals who just point blank love to go there for the live music and good times.