Carmen Chai tours Portugal's playful capital and comes away with a new-found respect for a city whose handsome tiled buildings and quaint neighbourhoods make it one of Europe's most beautiful places.

Carmen Chai went to London a few years ago chasing a dream and reflects on how Britain’s capital and the people she’s met there have changed her life for the better.

Carmen Chai travels deep into Spain's magical Mallorca and comes away impressed by the towns and villages she visited and the people she met.

In a love letter from Paris, writer Carmen Chai introduces us to the things she most admires about the romantic French capital, from its haute cuisine dining to its simple backstreet cafes.

BARCELONA - I’m being a glutton. While taking a break from the relentless heat in a cool, air-conditioned butcher’s shop, I stare at a small snow cone-sized cup, overflowing with glistening slivers of finely cut Iberian ham and try to rationalize the €4.50 ($6.80 Cdn) purchase with my stomach.

MODENA, ITALY - Italo Pedroni pours red wine into my glass and orders me to “Mangia! Mangia! (Eat! Eat!). The patriarch of the Pedroni family has already made many visits to my table with lots of food in his restaurant in this charming northern Italian town.

POSITANO, ITALY - The image most people have of the Amalfi Coast is stunning sea views from gorgeous towns cascading down steep cliffs, where everything smells like lemon and basil and people gather on sunbaked beaches to splash in the Mediterranean surf.

This is the third time in three days that I’m devouring a schnitzel bigger than my face. The pork cutlet pours over my giant plate, it’s pounded paper thin with a crispy golden exterior. I cut a triangle-sized bite, squeeze fresh lemon, dousing the morsel in its juices, and then smear it through the remnants of my potato salad. I wash the perfect bite down with a gulp of blond beer. This is so good! I’m already negotiating how I can fit in a fourth stop on my travels.

ISTANBUL - Bahar dumps pales of soapy, warm water over my body, and limb by limb she scrubs me down. I’m lying in my birthday suit underneath the dome of a Turkish hammam. The heat and the methodical sound of water hitting the stone floor are lulling me to sleep. And when I open my eyes in between rinsing, I’m surrounded by foggy steam and the outline of other women, barely clad as they’re bathed, too.