European cities are embracing adventure. Here's how you can get involved
Packing for a city break used to involve comfortable shoes, a smart casual outfit or two, a big appetite and a sturdy liver. Indulgence was the focus, with a little light sightseeing to ward off the gout.
The contents of today's carry-ons can look very different: swimsuits, trainers, hiking boots, waterproofs, sports kit and perhaps even a little Lycra. And that's because, in many of our favourite European cities, there's an awful lot more than tasting menus and artisanal wine to get stuck into.
Cycle paths and jogging trails are now standard — an integral part of all but the most overtly sedentary cities. However, in recent years, a whole host of outdoor urban adventures have been added, offering visitors a fresh perspective that's both exhilarating and endorphin-fuelled.
Paddleboard through the ancient heart of Ljubljana. Abseil off a bridge 230ft above the Douro in Porto. Swim in a converted barge in Berlin. Surf in a former canal in Rotterdam. Kayak past 13th-century palaces in Stockholm. Ski down, or clamber up, a power plant in Copenhagen. The options are as varied as they're innovative.
Elsewhere, travellers can blend their sightseeing with stadium climbs and rooftop hikes, freerunning adventures, canoe excursions, e-bike expeditions and — in certain coastal cities — an introduction to e-foiling (surfing without all the strenuous paddling).
So, what's driving this change? A post-pandemic focus on both physical and mental health, certainly. A recent report by Neilson Beach Clubs, who have resorts across Europe, including Greece, Croatia and Sardinia, found that more than three-quarters of those polled now embrace activity on holiday — a pattern which is mirrored in the city-break sector. 'With health and fitness now such an integral part of our culture, people are turning to holidays that have an emphasis on wellbeing over traditional sightseeing,' says the CEO of Neilson, David Taylor. In Slovenia, paddleboarders can often be seen making their way down the Ljubljanica River on a sunny day. Photograph by Getty Images, Robert Pavsic
Lena Andersson started Go! Running Tours in Copenhagen in 2013. A dozen years on, the sightjogging company, which combines running with sightseeing, operates in nearly 80 cities worldwide — more than half of them in Europe. The running boom only partly explains the proliferation, she thinks; for every habitual jogger she and her network of guides cater for, there are plenty of new runners looking to enliven their city break with something unusual and immersive.
'Visitors want to get beneath the surface of a city,' she says. 'They want to mix, interact and connect with a local, get tips and recommendations. By the end of a tour, someone will have seen the main sites, sure, but they'll also know all about the guide who accompanied them. They'll uncover their go-to coffee spots and favourite restaurants.'
While some city breakers are bringing their active lifestyles with them, others are being nudged this way by the destinations themselves. Facilitated by warmer climes, more hours of sunshine or 'human-centred' urban planning, many of Europe's city-break destinations have activity in their DNA. And it's something visitors increasingly want to experience.
'People don't come to Copenhagen for big tourist attractions, as we don't really have those,' says Giuseppe Liverino, of Wonderful Copenhagen, the Danish capital's tourism board. 'They come for the lifestyle. Cycling everywhere, renting a kayak, taking a sea swim or an ice dip followed by a sauna. These aren't contrived activities — this is what the locals do. These days, what visitors want is a blend of authentic and 'outside the box' experiences.' CopenHill is a unique waste-to-energy plant in Copenhagen with a ski slope and climbing wall on its roof. Photograph by Amélie Louys Giving back
Lena believes environmental sensitivities feed into the trend. 'If you're coming to a city and you're using your own power to get around, that's reducing the impact on that place,' she says. Some visitors go further and seek to have a net positive effect. GreenKayak is a scheme that operates in around 20 European cities, allowing visitors to borrow a craft in exchange for collecting litter. To date, nearly 85,000 people have taken part.
'It's a triple win,' says founder Tobias Weber-Andersen. 'People get to be active, explore the city in a new way and give something back to the destination. You feel you're contributing.'
Outdoor adventures have another benefit, particularly in our financially straitened times: affordability. Plan a city-break itinerary around landmark attractions, stage shows and destination restaurants and costs can quickly spiral. Go for a swim, grab a rental bike, a paddleboard or go rollerblading and the costs will be comparatively modest. For those who are time poor, it also showcases more, in less time.
The subtle but inescapable twinning of sport and destination marketing also feeds into the interest in active urban adventures. From Barcelona welcoming the America's Cup to Paris hosting the Olympics last year, cities now woo big sporting events in the same way that brands have always courted big-name sports stars. Why? Because it puts them in the global spotlight, positions them as dynamic and active, and guarantees a generous flow of similarly minded visitors downstream.
Inevitably, social media plays its part. No one posts about a straightforward walking tour they went on; an eye-catching urban adventure is where the kudos lies (literally, in the case of the Strava app), and destinations are responding accordingly, dreaming up offerings that they know will generate traction on Instagram and other platforms.
This isn't necessarily a bad thing, says Tobias. 'We encourage people to use social media,' he says. 'They can feel happy and proud about being active and doing something a little different. And we get the message across that our cities are something that need to be looked after.' With almost 340 miles of cycle paths — and more being added all the time — Copenhagen is often ranked as the world's most bicycle-friendly capital. Photograph by Getty Images, Alexander Spatari Three action-packed cities to visit
1. Rotterdam
While its northern neighbour, Amsterdam, wrestles with overtourism, the Netherlands' second-most visited city continues to refine what one might call 'optimised tourism'. Its obliteration by German bombing raids in the Second World War left post-war planners with what amounted to a blank canvas; the result is a city as open and efficient as it is young and dynamic, with lots of green spaces and waterways.
Hike through the half-mile-long urban oasis of Dakpark, or Roof Park, so called because it's elevated to optimise views of the port and surrounding city. Alternatively, back on the ground, join the rollerbladers, skaters and runners navigating the paths through the forested Kralingse Bos on the fringe of the city. There are jogging trails and an athletics track that's open to the public at Roel Langerakpark and smooth cycle paths stitching the green spaces together. Urban swimming has been embraced in a big way, too. One of the best spots is Zwembad Rijnhaven, in the middle of the city, with sunbathing platforms and ladders into the water.
Why go now? In keeping with the city's active and entrepreneurial spirit, the world's first outdoor urban surf pool opened last summer in a former canal overlooked by Rotterdam's neo-Renaissance city hall. A decade in the making, RIF0101 — named for the Dutch word for 'reef' and the postcode in which it's located — generates immaculate waves, provides lessons, board and wetsuit hire, and even has a bar with a sprawling terrace. Canoes and SUPs can also be hired to explore the waterways fanning out from the pool. Still got some energy left? The highest abseil in Europe is on offer at the towering Euromast, on the edge of tranquil Het Park, with a descent of almost 330ft.
2. Copenhagen
In 2022, the Tour de France began with an eight-mile time trial through the streets of Copenhagen. Rarely has the race's country-hopping prelude been staged in a more apt location. The Danish capital is the most bike-centric of all European cities, the consequence of smart, livability-focused municipal planning. As a visitor, you can't help but get swept along. Hiring a bike is a breeze (most hotels as well as cycle shops rent them, or use apps such as Donkey Republic). With cars marginalised, the myriad of green spaces around the city are less polluted and full of trails for walking and running. Copenhagen hosts the world road-running championships next autumn, while 'plogging' — combining jogging and rubbish collection — is one of the activities that feature in the city's CopenPay initiative. Set to be expanded this summer, it offers visitors perks and free experiences in exchange for 'green' activities.
Why go now? It's the reinvention of the former military and industrial harbour as a giant waterborne playground that really sets the tone. The water is clean enough to yield mussels and oysters for the city's restaurants and there are more than a dozen havnebadet (harbour baths). Outdoor pools such as Islands Brugge and Fisketorvet are popular year-round, despite the cold Scandic winters; and kayaking, waterskiing, canoeing, paddleboarding and other watersports are all on offer, too. CopenHill — a £500m world-first fusion of a green energy plant and an adventure centre — remains a huge draw. As well as a 1,640ft ski run and a climbing wall with dizzying views of the city, there's a landscaped hiking trail planted with 200 trees winding up to Copenhagen's highest viewing platform. As you burn off energy, the plant generates it.
3. Munich
Perhaps it's the proximity to the Alps; or maybe its legacy of hosting huge sporting events. One thing is certain: this is a city that has activity in its veins. There are 745 miles of cycle paths, with 80% of Münchners estimated to own a bike, and dense pockets of green line the banks of the Isar, tempting both locals and visitors outdoors. Best known, perhaps, is the Englischer Garten — one of the largest urban parks in the world, and year-round, it's a hive of activity. In summer, river surfers tackle the white water of the Eisbach, which flows off the Isar; wooden rafts are paddled downstream; and bathers and picnickers converge on the white-sand beaches. In the winter months, the 3.5-mile cross-country ski trail that weaves through the floodplains of the river is a big draw. Horse-riding excursions are available, and there are nearly 50 miles of trails through the park for joggers and cyclists.
Why go now? 'Two hours at high altitude' is how Munich's Olympic Stadium bills its roof-climb experience, high above the hallowed turf on which the 1972 Olympics, and the World Cup final two years later, were staged. The tour culminates — if you're daring enough — in a zip-line down to pitch level. For summer, the variety of pools and swimming spots within the city almost rivals Copenhagen. The Dantebad is heated to 30C throughout the year. Prinzregentenbad, across the Isar in the east of the city, has an outdoor pool and an adjacent river beach popular with volleyballers. And, for an alternative take on the palaces of Schloss Schleissheim and Schloss Nymphenburg, do as the Bavarian overlords once did and consider a ride in a Venetian gondola along the adjacent canals. After all that activity, a little sit down will be a welcome relief. Published in the European Cities Collection 2025 by National Geographic Traveller (UK).
To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Chicago Tribune
3 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Long after the fuss over Pope Leo XIV, the village of Dolton will still be here
The village of Dolton, which is where you may find yourself if you're traveling south through Chicago and run out of Chicago to travel through, which we have heard more about in the past 30 days or so than since it was established 130-odd years ago, which is now best known to the world as the hometown of Pope Leo XIV, is like a lot of Midwestern places. Or a lot of the blink-and-you-miss-it boondocks, backwaters and wherevers other popes have come from. You never give it a second thought, until you do. And so, before our attention swings forever more to the Vatican, know this: Dolton, whether or not you ever think about it again, is full of kindness and hope. But . It's a pocket-sized village (4.6 square miles, with a population that peaked at around 26,000 in 1970 and has drifted off ever since). It's on the banks of muddy Little Calumet River and modest Lake Cottage Grove, though it feels far from anything damp. The town water tower always seems like it could use a fresh coat of paint. Railroad tracks shoot here and there, all over the place. It's been working class since European settlers (Germans, Dutch) arrived in the 1800s. But after industry faded away generations ago, the future never trended brighter. Dolton kept hoping. Its new wish for a burst of pope-related tourism resonates with another moment in its history 130-odd years ago, when Dolton so hotly anticipated a boom of new residents and tourists to emerge from the success out of Chicago's Columbian Exposition of 1893, Dolton civic leaders decided to get incorporated. That boom landed with a wet . Neighboring South Holland began touting itself as the fancy and inviting meanwhile Dolton became home to a large sauerkraut factory and several nondescript industrial warehouses that churned out canned beets, lima beans, baking equipment, castings and barrels. See, until a few weeks ago — May 8, to be precise — there wasn't a lot of there. If you're planning a pilgrimage to the pope's hometown this summer, keep that in mind: Dolton was never a remarkable place, and never asked to be considered remarkable. Except, in its own way, it is. Just like wherever it is you came from. Pope Leo XIV officially begins his papacy with inaugural Mass in St. Peter's SquareDolton has good history and bad history, and lawns, stores, squirrels, parks, good people, bad people, boring people, people with too much to say, people with nothing to say. It's seen plenty of characters: The grandma in the 1800s who would drag her rocking chair out to new railroad construction sites and knit all day, hoping to block yet another soot-spewing steam engine from lumbering into town. The mayor (Ira Hastings) who served from 1935 to 1957, having found his calling after knocking around minor-league baseball — a stint so bad, he played on 12 different teams in only four years and retired with exactly zero home runs and zero RBIs. More ominously, there was that friendly guy down at the local trophy shop (Trophys Are Us), the one who turned out to be a serial killer (David Maust). And that Marine radio operator who was in Desert Storm, who also turned out to be a serial killer (Andrew Urdiales). There was the Dolton man whom everyone called Motorcycle Mike though it was a misnomer: Mike, an associate of Al Capone's, was known for stealing cars, so many around the Midwest that when he was finally caught at 82-years old, he became the oldest car thief in Minnesota history. Jimmy Carter once held a town hall meeting in Dolton. And Gene Hackman shot a single scene in Dolton for a movie you never saw ('The Package'). Dennis DeYoung lived with his parents in Dolton, just as he began to play rock music with a few friends who later called themselves Styx. That said, other than, again, you know, , the second most remarkable thing to happen in Dolton was a demographic shift driven by the decline of factory work and textbook white flight. Which was not that remarkable for Illinois, either. In 1980, there were only 490 Black residents in Dolton; by the 1990s, there were more than 14,000. Today, Dolton is around 90% Black. RIVER FERRY HELPED DOLTON GROW AS SETTLERS FLOODED INTO JUNCTIONDolton may look different now than it did when it was a blue-collar postwar suburb, but it's not really all that different. You can still count the stoplights on a few dozen fingers. No one over at Kandy Kane Park (including Park District officials) can tell you why it's . The village hall is no larger than a small bank branch; and inside is like a DMV on a slow morning. Official village vehicles are so tiny, a resident described them to me as 'clown cars.' So no, it's not Mayberry. Midwest snark comes factory-installed, as do caveats: Dolton's , you hear. A family place. . That's why people move here. One morning at Olivia's, where everyone stops for pancakes, a Jamaican retiree showed off photos of grandkids to a retiree who drove a truck for years. They didn't know each other until that day; before saying goodbye, they made dinner plans. If it all sounds too idyllic to be true all the time, yes, it is, and so what? Even the locals who never wanted to live anywhere but Dolton will quickly add, sure, they live among the faded lettering and tattered awnings of far too many shuttered storefronts, businesses that, decades ago, seemed promising to someone. Yes, they say with a self-deprecating chuckle, there's still no there in Dolton. But there are thoughtful people who, long before a pope came out of their ranks, were already doing onto others as they would have done onto themselves. The first resident I approached was mowing his lawn — except, I learned, it was actually the lawn of an aging neighbor who lives on a fixed income and needed a hand. The man with the mower, Jacques Lamarre, 70, semi-retired, had the time, so … He says it self-consciously. He's not looking to become a pope or a saint or anything. He speaks with the musical French timbre of his native Haiti. He's lived in Dolton since the 1970s. He talks long and wittily, it's as if he had been waiting for someone to ask him why he lives on this block, in this neighborhood, in this town, in this state. He smiles and says: It's a place of 'two faces.' North side is rough, west side is easy. 'But that's also relative,' he adds generously. He raised three kids here, all of whom moved away as they got older. His neighbors, also elderly. South Holland, a stone's throw away, is 'upper grade,' but he prefers here. 'We get Fourth of July fireworks. And we have of churches. Do something you shouldn't, you don't go far to tell someone you feel bad!' Indeed, down at the end of the street, at Faith United Methodist, there's a wide wall with a sun-washed sign that seems to beg: 'NO BALL PLAYING.' You can tell, ages ago, this was perfect wall for hitting a ball against, but whatever concrete existed beneath it is now overgrown grass. Just the other day, one of Katrina Cotton's neighbors called her at work. They were worried because it appeared someone suspicious was creeping around Cotton's backyard. After a few worried moments, it dawned on Cotton: Oh, wait, that's just the termite man, spraying. 'I love Dolton,' she said, 'it's my hometown, people look out for one another. I know everyone. I know the person who lives in that house.' She points across a park. 'And that house. It's cozy. The kind of place where, from where I am standing, I know if I cross two train tracks there, I'm in Chicago.' It's the kind of place where the landmarks on your personal map are the same as everyone else's. To reach, say, the Free-N-Deed Market downtown, near the village hall: Pass the basketball court, continue by that long parking lot nobody parks in, pass the brown and tan houses that look like brown and tan houses, the apartment complex that could be anywhere, and when you get to the building that used to be New Zion church, by the closed obstetrics office, turn left — there you are. You'll find Nicole Scott, who founded the Free-N-Deed food pantry, as well as, next door, Tabitha's Closet-N-Thrift, which is named for the Biblical Tabitha, also known as Dorcas, also known as a compassionate soul who helped widows. A long note in the window explains all of this and much more. Sales go to the American Association of Single Parents, which Scott founded. Scott created all of this. But she doesn't like to acknowledge that. 'Because God does it all, in my book.' She's short and imposing and sizes you up and keeps moving. You are taking her time but she doesn't want to brush you off, she's not rude. She's building a soup kitchen in an adjoining space; she's calling it Elijah's Cafe. Beside that, an emergency shelter; she's calling it Jacob's House. She's been repurposing an entire strip mall, with Free-N-Deed as the anchor, mainly for Dolton residents who could use help. Many do: About 20% of residents live below the poverty line; unemployment is roughly double the state rate. Scott whispers it's been great working with Jason House, the new mayor of Dolton, but the last few years were a trial. She says nothing more. She's discreet. Her eyes search your face and tell you what you already know: The previous mayor, Tiffany Henyard, voted out last winter beneath a cloud of financial probes and federal investigations, had a nickname: 'Worst mayor in America.' Scott smiles tightly. The two things you're never supposed to talk about, politics and religion, have become the only two things that anyone wants to talk about when it comes to Dolton, Illinois. As late as the 1960s, much of that dirt held on to an endemic smell of onion fields. Its first residents were Potawatomi and Winnebago. Eventually the town was named for the Dolton Family, who traveled here from Ohio in a carriage pulled by oxen. They settled on this land for reasons many people still settle here: They found Chicago expensive and crowded. Dolton suggested opportunity, and indeed, the railroads arrived quickly, then the corporations. Industry was good to Dolton for decades. The soil made for perfect bricks. The rivers were ideal for shipping. Plus, Chicago was right there. US Steel, as well as other factories, brought in solid, middle-class factory jobs, and the railroads attracted employees from Pullman who eventually stayed. Residents around the Southland began referring to Dolton as 'Dolton Station,' a place so crisscrossed with rail lines that children headed to school could be spotted sitting crosslegged by the tracks, doing homework as they waited, blocked again by slow-moving trains inching past. Dolton, for a while, turned into the archetype of the 20th century blue-collar Midwest, modest union work, affordable bungalows. The first movie theater in the south suburbs was built here. Churches, in particular, proliferated, as well as the kinds of churchgoers who lecture on street corners about the evils of drinking and dancing (while being known to go out drinking themselves every night). After 1970, Dolton became another kind of Midwest example. Corporate globalization, slowly snowballing, closing its factories, taking jobs. The property tax base evaporated, and real estate speculators bought homes from deserters. More of Dolton now rented. By the 1980s, residents were putting signs in their windows urging neighbors to stay. The first Black residents came from Chicago for affordable housing, better schools, more quiet and less crime. Many others arrived from the South. Cotton's parents moved here from Alabama, partly because, like the Europeans who had come here a century earlier, rural life agreed with them. James Stewart, partly retired, sat in his driveway the other day watching a neighbor curl his body around a lawn mower, fine-tuning its innards, picking at clumps of fresh grass. For years, he built sidewalks here, he said. He was a cement mason. He moved to Dolton 30 years ago, from Englewood, to avoid gang violence. Before that, he was in Holly Springs, Mississippi, home of Ida B. Wells, the sort of place you can get on a horse and ride for miles. He lived on a 3,800-acre plantation; he calls himself one of the last sharecroppers. He longed for that quiet. He's so entrenched here now, he figures he could be mayor himself. He holds no illusions and suffers no doubters: 'Dolton is up, down, good days, bad days, like anywhere these days.' New Dolton may have come for many of the reasons as old Dolton but by the 1990s, the land was no longer firm. Warehouse jobs were replacing factory jobs. Residents became familiar with the hollow optimism of 'redevelopment' and 'enterprise zones.' It's hard to hear when the house next door leans so improbably to one side you don't know what's holding it up. Against a closed government office there's a painted sign boasting of Dolton as a 'certified city,' a reference to a state development plan from 1983. In 2025, it comes across like a reassurance that Dolton still exists. The way bungalow owners emerge on a bright morning to weed whack away a burst of dandelions. The way the library lines its shelves with books about spring and renewal and optimism. The way Wilma's Famous BBQ still sells its beloved Obama Juice — lemonade, tea and raw honey — in those small plastic jugs you used to see in the '70s. Hope here can look as modest as the sign at Dolton Bowl promising 'freshly oiled' lanes every day. I knocked on the door of a home that — considering this is the pope's hometown — has an unfortunate street number: 666. No one answered. That's a win. Sometimes you take hope where you can find it. I asked Nakita Cloud, the village spokesperson, about Lake Cottage Grove — one of the few sites of natural beauty here. It's controlled by a 'privately owned fishing club' named the Piscateers, who keep Dolton out using chainlink fence; that arrangement, once disputed by the village, upheld by state courts, began in the 1940s. She said the Piscateers, in fact, recently invited Dolton trustees for a barbecue and, though nothing will change about the lake, she found them 'hospitable.' That's what progress can look like. Cloud grew up in Chicago, but she pictured Dolton as 'the goal,' the quiet suburb to retreat one day. 'There was a period of riff-raff, I won't lie,' she said, 'but crime's down. A better future is not far.' Dolton hadn't marched in any local parade in years, but on Memorial Day, when village staff carried a banner in a South Holland parade, strangers from neighboring communities stepped off the sidewalks and met them spontaneously in the street, hugging them, urging them to keep going. Hold that image tight. Because, surprised as everyone was that a new pope came from Dolton, again, this is exactly the kind of place where popes come from, where miracles get reported and saints grow up. Working class, ramshackle, tight knit, borderline rural, hoping against hope. Remember that the next time someone tells you this new pope is from Chicago. He's not — not really. He's from Dolton, a small place where nothing interesting has ever happened and the primary export these days is decency.
National Geographic
6 hours ago
- National Geographic
How mournful fado music offers a window into Lisbon's soul
This article was produced by National Geographic Traveller (UK). It's nearing midnight in Alfama, Lisbon's oldest neighbourhood, when a lady in black steps into a taverna. The bar staff scurry to turn off the lights, leaving only the flickering tapers of candles to illuminate her angular features and fringed shawl, which she's pulled tight around her shoulders. Elvira Giblott scans the room, as if reaching for a muse, then greets the two guitarists by the bar with the title of a song. In the restaurant, every fork is stilled, every wine glass untouched. She sings of Lisbon, of the beauty and struggle of life here, her voice filling the room before dropping to a velvety whisper. It's as if her heart is breaking before our eyes. When, several songs later, the seasoned singer sweeps out of Tasca do Chico into the lamplit lane, it feels as if a spell has been broken — and something profound has been shared. In Alfama, the spiritual home of Lisbon's folk fado music, such encounters can be sought out in tascas — unfussy taverns like the one I'm sat in, where rich stews and meat dishes are served — or more upmarket fado houses, where etiquette is more strictly upheld. 'You should understand the difference between the establishments,' another performer, Joana Carvalhas, tells me when we get chatting at the end of her set. 'There are places where you may be asked to leave for talking during a performance, where the music is just as serious as the food.' At the start of her career, but with the resonant vocals of someone twice her age, Joana represents the next generation of fadistas (fado singers). 'Of course, we now perform mainly for tourists, because we want to share fado and preserve it,' she explains, referring to the uptick in interest since UNESCO recognised the genre as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity in 2011. 'But at the end of the working night, us musicians still gather, at traditional places like Tasca do Chico or Mesa de Frades to play simply for the love of it.' 'There are places where you may be asked to leave for talking during a [fado] performance, where the music is just as serious as the food,' says fado performer Joana Carvalhas. Photograph by Jenniffer Lima Pais If the nights in Alfama are for fado, the days are for sightseeing. This is the Lisbon of postcards and daydreams, where cobblestone lanes are strung with colourful washing lines, vintage trams rattle around tight corners, and terraced miradouro (viewpoints) gaze out over a jumble of terracotta roofs and church towers towards the River Tagus. 'It wasn't always this popular,' walking tour guide Claudia Flores explains the next day in the shadow of the cathedral. 'For centuries, before the gentrification of the last decade, Alfama was a working-class neighbourhood. It was here and in nearby Mouraria, the old Moorish Quarter, that fado — meaning fate — was born 200 years ago, although many trace its roots back much further.' Central to fado music, and to the Portuguese psyche, are the ideas of saudade (melancholic longing) and the humbling hand of destiny. It was in 1755, as Lisbon rode high on the colonial riches ushered in during the Age of Discovery, that disaster struck. The most destructive earthquake in European history hit the capital, compounded by fires and a tsunami, levelling all but hilly Alfama with its firm volcanic bedrock. Reconstruction of the city centre was elegant, as anyone who tours the Pombaline monuments of Baixa-Chiado can attest, but emptied the national coffers, paving the way for the repressive Estado Novo regime of the 20th century. ''Fado, football and Fatima' were dictator António de Oliveira Salazar's three Fs — a cynical credo designed to pacify and control the masses,' Claudia explains, as we arrive at an eye-catching mosaic, a portrait rising out of the calçada (patterned pavement), completed by artist Vhils in 2015. The figure is Amália Rodrigues, Portugal's greatest fadista, who died in 1999 at age 79. She was the first woman to be interred in the National Pantheon. 'I know her from the glamorous photos decorating the local tascas, framed large as if revering royalty or petitioning a saint,' she adds. 'Fado could be subversive, voicing the everyday complaints of ordinary people, so the state moved to regulate singers and their new lyrics,' she explains. 'Some bohemians took the genre underground.' But it was Amália Rodrigues who took it to stratospheric heights. The eight galleries of Ah, Amália flow through large-scale projections, a virtual reality experience and an eye-catching mirrored room. Photograph by the Ah, Amália: Living Experience The queen of fado To better understand the evolution of fado, I've come to the arty warehouse regeneration complex of 8 Marvila, three miles up the coast from the city centre. Amid the area's restaurants and pop-up boutiques, a state-of-the-art, permanent exhibition dedicated to Amália Rodrigues opened in 2024. 'From a humble start in life, she elevated fado to a new dimension — she released 170 records and performed in more than 70 countries,' Louis Brézet from the Ah, Amália: Living Experience show tells me by way of introduction. 'The 20th century was a time when the Portuguese had few freedoms, especially women; when the country was seen as a backwater. Her life, and what she achieved, deserves this level of recognition.' The eight galleries flow through large-scale projections, a virtual reality experience and an eye-catching mirrored room. Her poetry — which expanded fado's established themes and elevated its use of metaphor — pepper the biographical exhibits along with previously unreleased recordings, all weaving together a portrait of a woman, a city and a sound. Even the traditional look of fadistas — the costume jewellery, the fringed shawl, the black dress that's typically twisted and wrenched during emotional songs — is drawn from Amália's own style. But while so much of her legacy lives on in today's performers, it's still astonishing to reach Ah, Amália's theatrical finale: a full-size holographic performance by the singer at L'Olympia in Paris at the height of her vocal powers. No expense has been spared on the sound quality in the little theatre; my skin prickles with the raw ecstasy and palpable grief in her expression, as she soars through riffs and pulls phrases from her soul. 'People think of Amália as a sad woman, always in black — but she was a wit with a flamboyant fashion sense,' tour guide Mariana Gonçalves says across town at the House Museum Amália Rodrigues, in the chichi São Bento neighbourhood, where the singer lived for the last 44 years of her life. Behind us, wardrobes burst with colourful, diaphanous gowns; around her bedroom, costume jewellery and handbags jostle for prominence with Catholic tchotchkes. 'Faith, fate. Colour, darkness. The drama and contradictions of Amália's life are a mirror to her time.' In 2011, fado was recognised by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. Photograph by Mesa de Frades This museum, run by the Amália Rodrigues Foundation, is a cosy counterpoint to the modernity of Ah, Amália, taking visitors behind the public image, into the time-warp salons where she threw extravagant bohemian parties, or to the sun-dappled back garden where, under the watchful gaze of Chico, Amália's aged parrot, afternoon fado concerts are staged up to three times a week. My guide also is keen to stress that while Amália's work was supported by the regime, the feeling was not mutual; quietly, she helped the poor and those in political exile. Motioning to a grand piano and a bulbous, 12-string fado guitar on display, Mariana says: 'Amália never learned to play an instrument herself, but she had an incredible ear, singing in more than five languages. But it didn't matter if foreign audiences could understand her. She always said: 'Fado is meant to be felt, not explained.'' I return to Alfama over subsequent evenings, its fairytale quality only deepening as I roam its knotted lanes and discover — through chance findings and recommendations — much variety across its two dozen fado venues. Some restaurants, I learn, are too cavernous or touristy for my taste, their compulsory set menus a high price for entry. But others offer some of the most intimate and spellbinding evenings I've ever had in Lisbon — tiny A Baiuca, barely the size of a living room, where gutsy amateurs boldly debut; elegant Sala de Fado, newly opened in 2024, attracting legacy fadistas like Célia Leiria; and note-perfect Mesa de Frades, set in an 18th-century chapel adorned with historic azueljo tiles. If the nights in Alfama are for fado, the days are for sightseeing. This is the Lisbon of postcards and daydreams, where cobblestone lanes are strung with colourful washing lines, vintage trams rattle around tight corners, and terraced miradouro (viewpoints) gaze out over a jumble of terracotta roofs and church towers towards the River Tagus. Photograph by Getty Images, Artur Debat At the latter, I try for a seat late at night, after the last dinner service has been cleared and the audience is thinning out. Behind the tall, gnarled chapel doors, there's an alchemy after midnight, as scheduled singers — like charismatic Flávia Pereira and velvet-voiced Matilde Sid, both eschewing the traditional black garb — start to share the floor with touring musicians. From the altar mezzanine, the acoustics are breathtaking, and there's an untrammelled joy and spontaneity to proceedings that I would never have previously associated with the genre. I tap my feet along to upbeat songs — in particular the barnstorming Maria Lisboa, Uma Casa Portuguesa and Canto o Fado — chiming in for the refrains where invited by the performers. At others, like heart-rending Fado Português and Estranha Forma de Vida, I feel a slight prickling in my eyes, despite the language barrier. 'It means a lot to me when I see someone feel the emotion of the song,' Flávia tells me at the end of the night. She's one of Portugal's newer artists, subtly adapting this musical genre to her own style. She says her influences are globally selling, modern fadistas such as Mariza, Carminho and Ana Moura — women marching in the footsteps of Amália Rodrigues. 'It doesn't matter where the audience is from,' she concludes. 'Fado is in all our souls.' During June, Alfama celebrates Santos Populares with a month of street parties, which make the neighbourhood lively but crowed. Visit in September for Caixa Alfama, an annual fado festival. Direct flights to Lisbon Humberto Delgado Airport depart from a variety of UK airports, including London, Manchester, Birmingham, Edinburgh and Bristol with airlines including British Airways, EasyJet and Ryanair. Accommodation options across the city are vast and varied: stay at the four-star AlmaLusa Alfama, a renovated 12th-century building with Roman foundations that opened in 2024. Prices start from €369 (£313), B&B. For more information, visit , and Published in the European Cities Collection 2025 by National Geographic Traveller (UK). To subscribe to National Geographic Traveller (UK) magazine click here. (Available in select countries only).
Business Insider
7 hours ago
- Business Insider
Nigeria's air fare taxes more ridiculously expensive than most African countries
According to a recent report by the African Airlines Association, air travelers in Nigeria pay three times more in taxes than air passengers in other African countries. Nigerian air travelers face significantly higher taxes, averaging $180 per foreign departure compared to the African average of $68. Countries such as Gabon, Sierra Leone, and Nigeria have the highest aviation taxes, while others like Libya and Malawi have the lowest. High operational costs make flights within Africa from Nigeria more expensive than some flights to Europe. According to the survey titled AFRAA Taxes and Charges Study Review 2024, Nigerians pay an average of $180 each per foreign departure, which is almost three times the continental average of $68. Gabon is the most expensive country in terms of net taxes, levies, and fees, followed by Sierra Leone and Nigeria, the report revealed. The list also includes Niger, Benin, and Ghana. Libya, Malawi, Lesotho, and Algeria are the least expensive countries for international departure taxes. Flying from Nigeria to other African nations is more expensive than flying to some European locations due to high operating costs, according to Dr. Kingsley Nwokoma, President of the Association of Foreign Airlines' Representatives in Nigeria, as seen in the Punch newspaper. Nigeria's aviation problems The Nigerian government has admitted to some of the problems and is still working to find a long-term fix. The most recent of these was the clearing of a backlog of about $900 million in foreign airline receipts that had been held up by a lack of foreign exchange. In the past, this problem led to airlines raising prices for flights to Nigeria. Airlines have since been advised by authorities to modify their ticket pricing to reflect the improved circumstances. The cracks in Nigeria's aviation industry go beyond just expensive flight deposits. Currently, Nigeria ranks among the African countries without a national airline. Despite boasting Africa's largest population, a sizable market, and enormous potential, the West African country does not operate has failed to properly operate its own national airline. Nigeria Airways proudly flew the flag from 1958 to 2003. It featured everything from Airbus A310s to Boeing 737s and 747s. However, the airline was permanently grounded following decades of financial difficulties. Nigeria has made numerous attempts to establish a new national carrier since then, but for some reason or the other, has always come up short.
