Rombach & Haas, a family-owned clock manufacturer since 1894, has been elegantly fighting back. Among its wares are elaborate carved timepieces that rotate on a one- or eight-day schedule, combining cuckoo calls with “The Happy Wanderer” and “Edelweiss,” but the daughter of the family, Selina Kreyer (née Haas), is taking the company in a new direction. A graphic designer by trade, Kreyer was tasked during her studies to develop a marketing concept for a fictitious company. “I used Rombach & Haas and gave it a more modern look,” she says. Out of that, Selina Haas Design was born.

As she leads me through her workshop, I see how the past and present collide. The drawers of the wonky cupboards are piled with the carved parts of clocks, miniature ballet dancers, and crimson birds, but the modern clocks are painted lime green or neon yellow, or papered with comic art. One sleek piece has a bright red cardinal—or rather, a minimalist impression of one—living inside a jet-black house. Though the pieces are contemporary in style, their internal mechanics look as they would have 250 years ago. Kreyer’s goal is to keep this kind of legacy craftsmanship alive: “How can we bring the Black Forest back to the forefront?” she says. “That’s always been my focus.”

When Ernest Hemingway came to soak up the High Black Forest in 1922, he stayed for 22 days. Unfortunately, a century later, the average stay is just two and a half days. But an extended holiday is all the more alluring at the area’s new, revamped lodgings. The sustainable hospitality company Stuub has snapped up unused and rundown buildings in 11 rural spots around Titisee-Neustadt and transformed them into simple yet elegant retreats. When I checked in at the location in Staufen, I found guest rooms dressed in calming grays, taupes, and other earth tones. As the Stuub website promised, there was “no cherry cake, no lace doilies, and no Bollenhut,” referring to the region’s signature hat topped with woolen pompoms.

Meanwhile, in Baden-Baden—famous for its ornate bathhouses, elderly repeat visitors, and grandiose Art Nouveau and Baroque character—the Belle Époque–style Brenners Park-Hotel & Spa, built in 1834 on the edge of the Lichtentaler Allee park and arboretum, has gotten a facelift: The façade, balcony floors, and 79 rooms and suites have been carefully stripped back and reimagined. “The revitalized Brenners symbolizes the changes taking place in the Black Forest,” says hotel director Stephan Boesch as he leads me through the hotel, pointing out all-new interior fabrics and preserved details like historical staircases, doors, and window frames. “We are renewing ourselves without forgetting the good old traditions.”

The environment itself, too, is being nurtured by a mindful young vanguard. Nadine Berger is one of 10 rangers at the Black Forest National Park, where the woodland is “getting wilder again.” Through their efforts, “we are allowing nature to be itself,” she says. A naturally diverse mix of species—spruce and fir and beech—is thriving, and fallen trees are left to nourish the ecosystem. Endangered and near-extinct species are back: adders, garden dormice, three-toed woodpeckers, and wood grouse; fungi such as lemon yellow Trametes and fountain-like Hericium flagellum, or “white icicle.” Dense mosses carpet the trunks of this dappled green world, which feels almost tropical. Veering off the narrow path is not advised—not because of the witches the Brothers Grimm warned of but to protect this precious wilderness. “Climate determines how we live,” Berger says. “A diversity of species determines if we live.” The fairy tale is getting a modern update, but in the best possible way.

Entering The Cornice, a pizzeria that is the only restaurant still open in Kirkwood Mountain Resort’s village at 8 p.m. on a Friday night in mid-March, is like slipping through a portal to an earlier era, one before hot honey and figs were toppings. The pitchers of beer, serviceable pies, parents ignoring kids, kids ignoring parents, and Foosball all jibe with what I’ve always heard about the resort: It’s got a throwback, no-frills ethos, like Utah’s Alta or New Mexico’s Taos. At a time when resorts are adding ski butlers, pop-up Veuve Clicquot bars, and $35 poke bowls, the atmosphere is refreshingly unpretentious.

The base-area parking lot I walk through the next morning reminds me of the resort parking lots of my youth. Which is to say, it feels a lot like tailgating. People have set up folding chairs and are sipping coffee and Monster Energy drinks as they gear up. Mediocre classic rock, like bad movies on planes, is better at altitude, and as we queue up at the Solitude lift, everyone—whether 7 years old or 70—is feeling the playlist, which is heavy on the Steve Miller Band and Bad Company. The vibes are great all day long: Alex and I ski the trails off the village lifts before heading to the west-facing backside, where the afternoon sun has softened the snow. We lap the aptly named Happiness Is run before being seduced by the scent of burgers wafting from the Sunset Grill.

Of all the Tahoe resorts, Kirkwood is the most isolated. There’s only one way in and out: State Route 88, formerly the main Gold Rush route and Mormon Emigrant Trail. If it dumps, this two-lane road closes. You do have to work a little harder to get to Kirkwood, and once you’re there, skiing is all there is to do. This dynamic has helped keep the resort a bit of a secret. By 4 p.m. the mountain and the village are quiet. We make the five-minute drive to the restaurant at Caples Lake Resort, which opened in 1939 at the site of a former trading post. It’s cozy, with a big stone fireplace and views over the frozen lake. The food is so tasty and the atmosphere so inviting that we come back the next evening on our way out of town.

There’s something joyful and optimistic about crossing into a different state: “The People of Indiana Welcome You!” “Welcome to Maine, the Way Life Should Be.” Crossing state lines on skis is an even bigger rush. Heavenly Mountain Resort, which overlooks the southeastern corner of Lake Tahoe, is the only American ski resort that straddles two states. I spend a good chunk of my morning, embarrassingly, taking videos of myself skiing past the “Welcome to California” sign, with its bright yellow poppies, and the Nevada one, with its pensive forty-niner. Heavenly is massive, with base areas in each state and 4,800 skiable acres. On Ridgerun, a wide intermediate trail with unobstructed views of the lake, I have the distinct feeling that if I keep going, I’ll eventually swan-dive into the water. Palisades has stunning views, but Heavenly’s are next-level.

The resort gondola drops us in the lakefront town of South Lake Tahoe, California. A mere block away, on the other side of Stateline Avenue, is the town of Stateline, Nevada, with its string of high-rise casinos. It’s wild to see the stark difference between what are essentially two sides of the same town, and even more so to see a Harrah’s and a Bally’s against such a pristine natural backdrop. For many, skiing all day and gambling all night is a winning combo, but I’m happy to head to the Desolation Hotel, on the California side, a design-forward, sustainably built boutique property that seems novel for Tahoe, where nondescript rental condos rule the day.

Packing for safari is a welcome instance when practical and playful fashion intersect. At Singita Kwitonda Lodge, situated on the edge of Volcanoes National Park, dress for sundowners in a palette that suits not only the natural shades of Rwanda‘s mountainous, forested landscape but also the property’s interiors, which just expanded across three new suites. Terra-cotta brickwork, woven ceilings, and decorative pottery have all been sourced from local artisans, while an on-site nursery, vegetable garden, and conservation room for pre-gorilla-trekking briefings keep guests rooted in nature. Come nightfall, settle in next to one of the roaring outdoor fireplaces, dive into the lodge bar’s wine list, and marvel at the sheer serenity of the setting.

This article appeared in the December 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.

“In September 2017, Andrea Bocelli asked me to go to Rome to sing ‘The Prayer’ with him at a benefit gala for his foundation. I had never been to Italy. This was a special moment, to get to go for the first time with probably the most famous Italian singer alive today. What a week, and I only had to sing twice! I’m used to Broadway, where we do eight shows a week, or being on tour and singing every other night, but I was able to relax and breathe. I just took the time to walk, walk, walk along the cobblestone streets at my leisure. At the Vatican there was a feeling that I had been there before. They kind of let me go on a private tour at St. Peter’s Basilica, and I was lucky enough to see the Chapel of the Choir. I sang just a little bit of [Leonard Cohen’s] ‘Hallelujah,’ and I loved hearing that song and its lyrics with those acoustics. I kind of lost myself there. On the day of the gala, I went for a small walk. I wanted to be very quiet and alone, because you give everything away later during the performance. On this particular night I was nervous. Usually I get over it because that’s what I do for a living, but I wanted to sing really well. I wanted Andrea to be proud of me. There was a breeze in the air at Villa Madama, the palace. I remember looking out at the crowd in the long room, with people going so far back, and seeing sheer white curtains blowing in the wind with white candlelight and white peonies and roses at every table, and randomly, luckily, I wore a white gown, which I don’t usually do—normally, my outfit is exactly wrong. Andrea and I started singing and I felt people were actually listening, not socializing. It took about four measures of the song before I finally relaxed. I remember the way Andrea’s energy was with me and the way he grabbed my hand. Then he stepped aside and let me sing on my own.”

Kristin Chenoweth stars in The Queen of Versailles at the St. James Theater in New York City, which runs through January 4, 2026. This article appeared in the December 2025 issue of Condé Nast Traveler. Subscribe to the magazine here.

The resort town of Banff, in southwestern Canada’s Alberta province, is the heart of Banff National Park, a 2,500-square-mile adventure haven beloved in summer for its sparkling alpine lakes, wildflower fields, and scenic hiking trails that crisscross the mountainous landscape. But in this stretch of the Rockies, where ski season can last up to late May, resorts, hotels, and tours are adding winter appeal on and off the slopes.

Shredding down one of the many runs at Mt. Norquay in Banff

Banff Norquay

In early 2026, skiers and snowboarders will gain access to Richardson’s Ridge, a 200-acre sweep of skiable terrain at Lake Louise Ski Resort, one of Banff’s three ski areas, along with Mt. Norquay Ski Resort and Sunshine Village. The Richardson’s Ridge Express, a high-speed quad chairlift, will transport skiers and boarders to five new beginner and intermediate runs. Next year also marks the 100th anniversary of Mt. Norquay, Banff’s oldest ski area. As part of its Norquay 100 Vision, the resort is building an elevated wheelchair-accessible walkway between mountain trails with striking views of the valley; an education and heritage center, created with local Indigenous communities; and, in 2027, a two-station gondola to replace the North American Chairlift and provide faster access to the summit.

To keep tourism in check on the Outer Islands, Seychelles currently employs a “one island, one resort” policy (though the country is considering two hotels on the island of Coëtivy). Environmental and wildlife conservation has become integral to Seychellois culture. In 1994 the Seychelles government banned turtle hunting; just over 30 years later, Aldabra is now home to one of the largest green turtle breeding populations in the western Indian Ocean. “Eating turtle curry was once part of our culture,” says Gilly Mein, a taxi driver who takes me to the airport in Mahé. “Nowadays it would be sacrilege.”

In 2018 Seychelles became the world’s first country to launch a Blue Bond, raising $15 million from global investors to write off part of its national debt in exchange for a commitment to protect 30 percent of its waters—162,000 square miles of it. The Outer Islands fall within this protection zone and now bloom with rare-species comeback stories. The Aldabra Group, which includes Astove, hosts some of the planet’s largest seabird colonies. The Aldabra atoll itself is now a UNESCO site and home to more than 150,000 giant tortoises.

“The Seychelles are the Indian Ocean’s Galápagos,” says my guide Elle Brighton, the ecology and sustainability manager of Blue Safari, a low-impact ocean-adventure company. It was founded in 2012 by the South African–born Seychellois citizen Murray Collins, who owns camps on mainland Africa, and the fly fisherman and Yeti brand ambassador Keith Rose-Innes. In 2012, Blue Safari took over Alphonse Island Lodge, the lone accommodation on the tiny ray-shaped island of less than a square mile, and turned it into a 29-key eco-resort.

Flying 250 miles southwest from Mahé on a 16-seater Beechcraft jet, I see on our descent swathes of emerald green cascading through otherwise sapphire waters. They’re colonies of seagrass, an oceanic plant and a carbon sink 35 times more effective than a rainforest. Alphonse Island Lodge is the base from which I dive, snorkel, and immerse myself in the marine wilderness of the Indian Ocean.

But the resort also demonstrates what low-impact stays can look like in Seychelles. Mostly solar-powered, it runs desalination and sewage treatment plants as well as rainwater harvesting and recycling programs. On the lodge’s roughly 430,000-square-foot farm, I spot, within the beds of tomatoes, butternut squash, and brassica, a heron opening its wings like a cemetery angel. Lady finger bananas grow in pretty, mechanical spirals near hives of Seychellois bees and piles of compost that smell of parsnips and provide over half a ton of fertilizer every week. The farm produces four tons of crops a month, supplying up to 90 percent of plant-based food in all of Blue Safari’s accommodations across the Outer Islands: a guesthouse on Astove, an eco-camp on Cosmoledo atoll, and this lodge on Alphonse.

Blue Safari sources fish only from the open ocean, never the reef. In fact, the company supports the operations of the Alphonse Foundation, an NGO that facilitates Blue Safari’s conservation strategy and funds the presence of Seychelles’s Island Conservation Society on Alphonse. It surveys the atoll’s reef as well as the migratory-bird and fish populations. Last year the foundation tagged about 20 manta rays and 32 sharks—lemon, gray, reef, silvertip, and bull species among them, none a significant threat to humans. My diving instructor Andrew Irwin tells me to keep an eye out for them: “In Indonesia you’re not guaranteed to see a big shark. Here you might see one at any moment.”

“As a kid, I would watch football games on the television with my dad,” says Olivier Rousteing, who until November 2025 served as Balmain‘s creative director. “When we saw fans going to the Champs-Élysées to celebrate France winning, I would dream of being there someday.” Today the fashion designer, who grew up in Bordeaux but has long resided in Paris, avoids the boulevard’s dense crowds, and instead he explores the low-key 9th arrondissement for its rising art scene, shops for one-of-a-kind furniture and antiques at flea markets, and gets lost in the juxtaposition of “the city’s 18th-century influences” and contemporary art museums. “Paris is all about the tension between heritage and modernity,” says Rousteing, who knows never to take his adopted home for granted. “Now, living here as an adult, I have to remind myself, ‘Olivier, remember when you were a kid, you dreamed of living in Paris.’ ”

Rousteing buys flowers, as well as fresh fish and fruit, at Marché d’Aligre.

Sammy Royal

Flea Market Finds

On Sundays, Rousteing visits the “beautiful, vibrant” Marché d’Aligre for “the best organic fruit, fresh fish, and flowers,” he says. “It’s been going for more than 200 years, so it’s a real slice of old-school Parisian living.” He also meets friends at the flea market at Porte de Clignancourt. “You never know what you’re going to fall in love with. I once found a striking 19th-century golden eagle, which is now in my hallway.” For accessories, the designer is “obsessed” with vintage costume jeweler Dary’s on rue Saint-Honoré: “I love going there to browse for gifts. I’ve bought some lovely pieces for my mother.”

New traditions

Rousteing never tires of classic Parisian dining experiences like at Caviar Kaspia on Place de la Madeleine. But one of his haunts is the “cozy, hidden-away” Anahi, a small Argentinian steak restaurant in the Marais. He’s also loyal to Hotel Costes for dinner (“Going there with friends has become a tradition”) and the Ritz. “It’s my second home. I celebrate my birthday there. When I was younger, I visited with my grandmother, and going there reminds me of that special time.”

Khao San Sek’s menu revolves around the most characteristic local ingredients—rice, chile, coconut, fish sauce, and palm sugar.

Chris Schalkx

Where to dine

In 2021, Chef Pichaya “Pam” Soontornyanakij put Chinatown on the global gourmet map by transforming her great-grandparents’ herbal medicine dispensary into Potong, a Thai-Chinese fine dining spot that has received endless accolades. Her new Khao San Sek, set in a jumbled shophouse down the road, drops the haute polish to offer Thai cooking at its essence, with a menu revolving around the most characteristic local ingredients—rice, chile, coconut, fish sauce, and palm sugar—served in fiery curries, punchy relishes, and charcoal-grilled seafood.

Where to shop for art

Chinatown’s rough-edged energy inspired the duo behind TARS Unlimited (short for The Artist Run Space) to relocate their decade-old downtown gallery to an early-19th-century factory off Song Wat Road. A rotating roster of mostly Thai artists treats the weathered building as part of their work, with site-specific pieces that incorporate Buddhist posters left by prior tenants or the afternoon light that filters through the windows. Stop by for limited edition caps and shirts made in collaboration with the exhibiting artists.

Where to grab all-day eats

Landing a last-minute table at Charmgang or Charmkrung, chef Aruss “Jai” Lerlerstkull’s hot-ticket Thai diners on Charoen Krung Road, is not an easy task, but his new casual spot, Charmkok, is more accessible. By day the restaurant serves Southern Thai lunch staples such as Hat Yai karaage chicken, rice noodles with crab curry, and melt-in-your-mouth pork belly smoked with sugarcane. After dark, the space transforms into a standing bar with a craft-beer-heavy drink list and a menu of kap klaem (“drinking foods”).

I’ve spent the entire flight from Katmandu to Paro filming out the window, but when the captain points out Mount Everest, I freeze. At check-in my husband, Shravan, quietly insisted on these seats. After 25 years of marriage, it’s these small acts of foresight that still catch me by surprise.

For months we planned this trip to mark our silver anniversary. I wanted something quiet—a mindful holiday in a place unspoiled by chain restaurants where we could reflect, not rush. Beautiful, mystical Bhutan, with its remote location in the Himalayas and its famous emphasis on Gross National Happiness, felt ideal.

Our earlier travels were mostly about thrills, indulgences, and late nights. For years we avoided quiet places where night fell early in favor of cities that pulsed with life: London, Tokyo, Paris, New York, Dubai. We swam in the Dead Sea, sailed the Nile, and danced in a bunker turned club in Beirut. On our honeymoon we stayed out till dawn in Bali, shopped in Hong Kong, and explored the Great Wall of China. It was during our travels that the virtues of being married to each other became most evident. Travel gives a relationship a chance for a reboot. You’re two strangers in a country, united in the strangeness of the world around you.

In Paro, our guide, Phub Tenzin, awaits in a graceful knee-length gho, Bhutan’s traditional men’s garment. We mention our preference for old monasteries and hikes. We’ve booked at the calm, minimalist Amankora lodges in Thimphu and Paro. Tucked into the forested hills, they’re designed like traditional dzongs, the country’s famous fortress-like architecture.

The sound of the gushing brook and forest birds is why we’ve left behind the noise of Mumbai. The stillness starts from the moment we arrive in Thimphu: no reception desks, no meal times, no schedules, no clocks. Shravan reluctantly agrees to put his gadgets away, and I do my best to set aside my worries about our children.

A bedroom at Amankora Thimphu

Chris Schalkx

For the past century the Opry has been Music City‘s crucible for forging country music myth and legend. In 1945 at the Opry, formerly called the WSM Barn Dance, Bill Monroe’s Blue Grass Boys introduced American listeners to the genre that would come to bear the group’s name. In 1959, following an introduction by Johnny Cash, a 13-year-old Dolly Parton made her Opry debut at the Ryman Auditorium, the program’s longtime downtown home before moving in 1974 to the Grand Ole Opry House, north of the city.

“Fans Buying Tickets” The ticket window at the Fifth Avenue entrance to the Ryman, where fans could buy tickets for $3.00. Ryman Auditorium, March 8-9, 1974. Photograph by Jim McGuire

Grand Ole Opry Archives

Nashville became Music City with the Opry as its voice. But when familiar names like Anderson introduce new talent like Foster, whose career is steeped in nostalgia and tribute, the transition feels more like the renewal of tradition than an evolution. The Grand Ole Opry can still feel like a club with a very specific type of member. I am a native Tennessean and lifelong lover of country music. Going to the Opry always feels like a homecoming, even if the place never exactly felt like a home for someone like me, a queer Gen Z Taiwanese woman. But its original mission—to bring country music to new listeners—thrives within Nashville’s next generation of venues and museums, which are creating inclusive spaces that counter the Opry’s exclusivity.

Over the past five years, more than 100,000 new residents have moved into the Nashville area. Many have brought with them a fresh vision of what country music can mean. Inside one of the RNBW Queer Music Collective‘s biweekly music nights, disco balls and swathes of rainbow fabric surround young, fun, and queer fans of country music. Hosted at East Nashville’s Lipstick Lounge, one of the 38 remaining lesbian bars in the United States, RNBW’s packed queer music nights paint LGBTQ+ country as not the margin but the center. I stopped by a show later the same month as the Opry’s anniversary extravaganza and bumped shoulders with a country crowd that felt unlike any other I’d ever found myself in. Cowboy hats sat atop dyed hair and wolf cuts; trucker hats and muscle tees were worn by more than just the men; and for once, I didn’t feel like I was the minority—or that a human existed who didn’t belong there. The collective was founded in 2016 by queer music executives Emily and Jamie Dryburgh at a political moment when the rights of the queer community were increasingly being threatened by Tennessee’s passage of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation. Just across from the Ryman, which is still going strong as one of Nashville’s most iconic concert venues, and a five-minute walk away from the Country Music Hall of Fame, the four-year-old National Museum of African American Music shines an overdue spotlight on the Black artists who have long been integral—but too often overlooked—in shaping country’s sound. The museum’s 1,500-strong collection spans five centuries of African American music, from its West African origins via slave ships to the political roots of hip-hop.