Boston gets a lot of attention for its classics—lobster rolls, Boston cream pie, clam chowder. How would you characterize the diversity of Boston’s food scene?

One of the things I love most about Boston is how many different cultures are represented through food. People think of us as lobster rolls and clam chowder, and of course those are here, but you can also find incredible Chinese, Vietnamese, Malaysian, and so many other cuisines. That’s one of our city’s greatest strengths.

After spending the covid-era years living in Chinatown, Jujubee’s favorite area of Boston is the nearby Public Garden.

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Do you have a favorite Boston neighborhood?

I spent several years living in Chinatown, and I absolutely loved it. It’s busy, energetic and full of life. It’s not a quiet, tucked-away neighborhood—there are students, tourists, and locals all moving through it at all hours.

I lived there from 2019 to 2022, which meant I spent the lockdown years in Chinatown. Professionally, it was a strange time because I was working on projects and releasing music, but I was also isolated like everyone else. What really grounded me was spending mornings nearby in the Public Garden. I would sit on a bench around nine o’clock in the morning, take in the scenery, and prepare myself for the day. It became my ritual.

Do you have any favorite spots in Boston’s Chinatown?

One of my favorite places [is] Hong Kong Eatery. Whenever I didn’t feel like cooking, I’d stop in for roasted duck, barbecue pork, rice and vegetables. It was affordable, delicious, and became one of my go-to comfort meals.

Club Café has long been a cornerstone of the LGBTQ community in Boston. What makes it special to you?

Club Café is great because it offers something for everyone. If you want to dance, you can absolutely do that. But if you’re looking for something more relaxed, there’s the Napoleon Room, where you can hear incredible singers, including people who’ve performed on Broadway. I appreciate that balance. You can have dinner with friends, listen to show tunes, and still be part of the energy of the space and the community.

The Eurovision experience begins within minutes of touching down at Vienna International Airport. I pause my headphones just in time to hear the pilot acknowledge the competition in German—cheers from ecstatic gaggles of pals come from the front of the plane.

As the aphorism attributed to Austrian satirist Karl Kraus goes, “The streets of Vienna are paved with culture, the streets of other cities with asphalt.” What would Beethoven think of Romania’s 2026 entry, Choke Me, I wonder, as I pass the Theater an der Wien. Something tells me the composer might have vibed with Dara’s Bangaranga, though—the Bulgarian track flutters between melodic hooks and Arabian-esque dance breaks at neck-break speed.

Playlist rolling on, I assume more of a strut to Antigoni’s Jalla (Cyprus’s entry, which, admittedly, has graced the Spotify playlist for weeks) and am transported to the superclub by the earth-shaking trance breaks of Felicia’s My System, Sweden’s entry.

Grand buildings, many museums and palaces, can be found at every turn in Vienna.

Connor Sturges

As Vienna’s blessed with sunshine after a spout of exceptionally bad weather that forced the Eurovision Village at Rathausplatz to evacuate just days before, I take to the streets for another unique musical adventure. Exiting Hotel Motto, I’m confronted by an euphonious classical rendition of Francesco Sartori’s Con te partirò—the melody to Andrea Bocelli and Sarah Brightman’s Time to Say Goodbye, also—from Mariahilfer Straße, one of the capital’s best-known shopping streets. I set off towards the Kunsthistorisches Museum, opened in 1891 by Emperor Franz Joseph I and now home to masterpieces by the brushstrokes of Titian, Rubens, and Pieter Bruegel.

Sartori’s contemplative masterpiece rings in my ears before—a bin! A bright orange bin on Babenbergerstraße catches my eye. “Schmeiss Like a Phoenix,” it reads, honoring Conchita Wurst’s winning song from 2015, beside a logo of “Vienna, 12 points.” As I later realize, all of the dustbins in the areas surrounding the Eurovision action have had a vivid facelift. It’s working, if the pristine streets are anything to go by. Although this may be a result of Austrian values and respectful attendees, I can’t see lyrics from Katrina and the Waves’ 1997 winning entry, Love Shine a Light, on dustbins deterring Soho Square’s punters flinging their dogends into the night.

What can you shop for in Vienna that you can’t get anywhere else?

Custom-made shirts at Gino Venturini, one of the oldest shops in the city, just around the corner from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. Once you’ve been measured there, you don’t have to worry about anything anymore and your shirts can be shipped all over the world.

Vienna isn’t complete without…

Sacher cake. Although I personally am a huge fan of the Sacher cube with rum, it’s even juicier than the cake.

Do you have a hotel tip for us?

The new Mandarin Oriental. Everything is very well arranged, as we say in Austria. A great spa and a really good gym, which I use regularly. I always stay there during Eurovision rehearsals and show week. It feels like home.

How do you actually prepare for the shows?

We started two months ago. From Sunday to Wednesday I’m in Vienna for rehearsals and recordings, and from Thursday to Saturday I’m in Cologne for Let’s Dance. In between, I was also in Berlin to launch my fashion brand Orimei by Victoria Swarovski with About You. The last three weeks before the Eurovision Song Contest are really scheduled down to the minute, there’s hardly a free moment from early morning until late at night.

Did you always want to be on the big stage or did it happen by chance?

I wanted to sing. That was something I really wanted. At 13, I wrote an email to the producer of Jimmy Blue Ochsenknecht. It was very cheeky, with no demo, just signed “Victoria S.” He actually wanted to meet me, and we recorded a song right away.

Your first TV appearance was in a show by comedian Mario Barth.

I was 15 then. Mario Barth invited me after I sang for him. I spotted him in a supermarket with my mother, introduced myself, and just started singing in front of him. Completely spontaneously. Again, very cheeky, but he liked it. I was allowed to sing “One in a Million” on his show. That led to a record deal, and I became the youngest artist signed to Sony Germany. I went on a stadium tour with Mario, who was the opening act for David Guetta and Taio Cruz. I still finished my high school exams and then moved to Los Angeles for three years to pursue my music career.

You returned at 21 to join Let’s Dance. How did you react when you were asked?

Not as quickly as with Eurovision. I thought about it for a long time, whether it was the right format. I wondered what people would say about me, whether they had prejudices because of my last name. In the end, it was absolutely the right decision. I won the show, and—with a one-year break in between—eventually got the offer to host Let’s Dance. That was never my plan; I kind of fell into it. Today, I can hardly imagine a different life.

Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl Halftime Show—or rather, the Bad Bunny concert surrounded by a couple hours of football—was a feat. Not only was the show almost entirely in Spanish (remember when Benito was first announced as the performer, and said that Americans had four months to learn Spanish? He meant it!). But throughout the 12 minutes of groundbreaking live TV, he managed to nod to cultural references big and small that showcased the cultural prowess of Puerto Rico and greater Latin America. As in, yes, he had Ricky Martin and Daddy Yankee and Karol G up there perreando in his casita. But he also had Toñita, the owner of a tiny Brooklyn bar, on stage serving him a shot (presumably of rum?) in a miniature recreation of her Caribbean Social Club; when Gaga appeared for the sole portion of the performance in English, she wore that blue dress by Luar, the label from American-Dominican designer Raul Lopez. It’s a testament to the creative excellence of Latinos, both throughout Latin America and the greater diaspora. And it was crying-in-Spanish amazing.

We clocked the references that might mean something to fellow travelers: The places you can visit, the tacos you can eat, the nail tech you can actually book with, and the cultural references that tell a greater story of Puerto Rico, to get you ready for the trip you’re definitely booking after that performance, right?

(Read more about how the rise of Latin American music is driving travelers to the region here.)

The Coco Frio stand

During “Tití Me Preguntó”, Bad Bunny quickly stops at a Coco Frio cart—a quintessential fresh coconut water street stand common across Puerto Rico, from which actual chilled coconuts are sold. The Coco Frio stands are usually at street corners close to the beach or in front of colorful shops on beaches like Luquillo, in Old San Juan, and along roadsides like Route 3.

(Find our full guide to the best beaches in Puerto Rico here.)

The domino game

Whether you’re in Brooklyn, Miami, San Juan, or Rincón, a domino table anchored by “viejitos,” or “little old men”, is what turns a street into a hangout spot; a bar into a place you can stay a while. Some people call the game the Danza de los Viejitos (the “dance of the old men”). As it intensifies, the phrase “la mesa se calienta” (the table heats up), and the energy and competitiveness picls up, even among friends. While you’ll find this scene in many places, it leaves us craving a trip to Miami’s famous Domino Park.

The fabulous nail tech

Also during the performance of “Titi Me Preguntó”, Bad Bunny passes celebrity nail tech and LA nail stylist Johana Castillo of @masterweenay—spotlighting the Latina-led beauty industry. On the island (and in many Puerto Rican communities elsewhere), your go-to salon is another neighborhood gathering spot, the place to chismear (gossip).

The piraguas stand

Bad Bunny stops at a wooden piragua stand, common on the island for serving shaved ice topped with tropical-fruit-flavored syrup. (If you looked closely at the glass syrup bottles on the cart, they were labeled with flags from places like Puerto Rico, Mexico, and Colombia.) You’ll find piragua at the beach and in town plazas across Puerto Rico. In Old San Juan, go to the Castillo San Felipe del Morro; on beaches like Isla Verde, spot them specifically between San Juan Water Club and El San Juan Sonesta.

The Villas Tacos LA

It’s not only Puerto Rico getting the spotlight: All Latino excellence, the entire barrio, is on display. The taco stand in the show is an homage to an actual taqueria in Los Angeles’s Highland Park, named Villas Tacos, with owner Victor himself actually at the grill as Benito walks past.

The boxers

A quick glimpse of two boxers, one wearing Puerto Rican-flagged shorts, is a nod to the boxing culture of Puerto Rico—a sport deeply rooted in the island’s culture (as in Cuba, it’s not uncommon for travelers to seek out a match or even take a boxing class while visiting). This is a deeper cut: In his song “NUEVAYoL,” Bad Bunny samples the voice of Puerto Rican boxing legend Felix Tito Trinidad, who says, “The best in the world, Puerto Rico.”

The pink casita

There’s no chance you missed the pink house that Bad Bunny and his squad was performing on top of: Also a staple of his recent tour, the set, styled as a traditional Puerto Rican home, hosted loads of celebrity guests—acting as a sort of “party de marquesina”, known as a casual, intimate house party held in a borinquen’s home or garage. A drive through any long-standing Puerto Rican neighborhood will show you similar-looking, colorful and cozy homes.

“Lisbon is the city of fado,” says Portuguese singer Carminho. “You have to experience it when you’re there.”

Carminho, who recently collaborated with Rosalia on the song “Memória” and released her latest album “Eu Vou Morrer de Amor ou Resistir” at the end of 2025, knows a thing or two about the Portuguese music tradition known as fado. “I started to practice while in my mother’s belly—she’s a singer, and she owned a fado house in Lisbon, and my brothers and sisters and I were all surrounded by fado.” Though Carminho’s first performance was at the age of 12, her mother says she started singing somewhere around age four.

The melancholic sound of the genre, whose early 19th century roots continue to grow in the country’s modern music scene, is best experienced in a cozy fado house, or fado bar, where the singers croon with zero amplification (it’s all natural acoustics here). The songs, often about lost love or nostalgia, are moving even if to guests who don’t understand the language. “Fado is it’s own language,” Carminho says.

Within Portugal, fado has had its ups and downs in popularity, but the genre is finally seeing a new era embrace its sound with vigor. “When I started performing, my friends didn’t want to listen, and the generation before them was even less interested. In some ways fado was tied to the old Portugal—with political issues, with the dictator—but about 15 years ago, people began to understand that the music itself was stronger than the preconceptions people had about it.”

It was, specifically, the 2008 crisis that spurred this change, Carminho says. “People were trying to understand how to survive when they lost their jobs or didn’t have money to pay their houses, and many people began small businesses based in the identity of Portugal,” says Carminho. “It was a way to recuperate our pride. We realized our gold was within the richness of our culture, and then began a boom in Portugality, and fado was part of that.”

Suffice to say, if you’re headed to Portugal and spending any time in Lisbon, listening to fado in a dimly lit taverna is a special experience to be had—one that embodies the spirit of Lisbon past and present. Some fado houses are more formal, with an entire dinner served upon white tablecloths, and a well-orchestrated run of show led by a renowned group of performers who sing between tables. Others are more spontaneous, marked by close quarters, low ceilings, Portuguese comfort food, and the possibility that a famous singer may drop by unannounced—or even invite a member of the audience up to sing. Wherever you go, just remember a few house rules: “You don’t speak when a fadista is singing,” first and foremost, says Carminho. You may want a reservation, especially at the big and well-known spots, but there are also low-profile fado houses where you can just show up, have a drink, and see what happens. (It never hurts to have your hotel concierge call ahead and confirm if a reservation is needed.) Smaller houses may be cash only.

Below, Carminha shares her favorite places to experience fado in Lisbon—from the informal to the buttoned up, with a few trips down her own nostalgia lane.

R. dos Remédios 139, 1100-453 Lisboa

“Mesa de Frades is the fado house where I’ve spent the most years singing. I sang for eight or nine years in that fado house before I started my career. I had the most beautiful nights there when I was just amateur. It’s in one of the most characteristic neighborhoods in Lisbon called Alfama, and it has this authenticity to it.

What is the significance of having a travel program on public broadcasting to you?

The significance is huge. Number one, it’s the only platform that has as many female travel hosts or female hosts in general. The main reason being there’s no executive who is saying, yes, we’ll sign you. [When you have a show on PBS] they sign you as an independent producer.

Number two, there’s no barrier to entry. If you have internet, you can access our show for free. We do get grants for making our shows fully accessible with closed captioning descriptions for the visually impaired. My sister is disabled, so I’ve always put accessibility in the forefront of making our shows.

Number three is legacy. I grew up watching Reading Rainbow and Mr. Rogers and Rick Steves. To now be on the platform that has been such an integral part of my upbringing is an honor.

The fourth thing is, as independent producers, we own all of our content. There’s no one to say, oh, we just shot 10 episodes, and all of a sudden they’re gonna pull it, and no one’s gonna see the light of day of that. As long as we can find the funding and make it move forward, people will see the show.

Mallozzi sits down with Māori musicians and dancers in Aotearoa.

Courtesy of Bare Feet With Mickela Mallozzi

What is the scouting process like for Bare Feet?

First, I look at a map and think of dances we haven’t featured yet, both in New York City and in international settings we haven’t been able to tap into and explore. Then we start to sort out stories. Usually episodes are five segments long—one, three, and five are dance/music related, and two and four are food, culture, nature, something interesting that’s completely unique to the destination.

Mallozzi learns about the tea harvesting process in Taiwan’s Alishan township.

Courtesy of Bare Feet With Mickela Mallozzi

It is not just the flurry of new events and venues that is driving jazz forward in Lebanon, it is also a shift in the approach to the musical style. “After the Civil War, there was a rigidity in the scene, a sense that you had to mimic American standards to be good,” Hosn says. “Today, musicians are far more innovative, often incorporating local sounds and instruments.” One of the first to do this was the iconic Ziad Rahbani, a Lebanese musician who began mixing elements of jazz into his pieces in the early 1970s; his 1973 play Sahriyyeh (“An Evening Party”) is often cited as one of the first major works in which Western jazz harmonies were merged with Arabic melodies.

Today, musicians are drawing on Rahbani’s legacy. “Through experimentation with fusion styles I found I could alleviate the dissonance of the quarter tone in oriental music [as the maqam-based musical traditions of the Arab world and eastern Mediterranean is referred to] by using the jazz harmonic motion,” musician Lucas Sakr explains. “It makes the oriental music far more digestible for wider audiences.” Sakr also incorporates a range of traditional instruments, including the oud, buzuq, qanun, nay, and violin. In these pieces, maqam-based melodies (part of traditional Middle Eastern music) float above extended jazz chords and modern grooves, the rhythm section adjusting carefully when quarter tones appear. Sakr’s work has earned international recognition, even leading to a highly competitive scholarship to study jazz at HEMU Lausanne.

Sawma also experiments with various styles with his fusion trio band, Bonne Chose. “Our band blends jazz, psychedelic rock, dream pop, and synth wave,” he tells me. Sawma is also part of a ‘Fuzz Jazz’ trio that performs each Wednesday at Centerstage, a Beiruti house in Achrafieh that functions as an experimental music room and bar. “Each week we invite one additional musician—often from outside of the jazz world—to improvise with us,” Sawma says.

These initiatives have continued despite a series of recent upheavals, including the pandemic, ongoing economic turmoil and, most recently, Israel’s strikes accompanying a new period of regional conflict. “We have faced many challenges,” Naiim explains, “especially when it comes to finding grants to run Jazz Week. Most NGOs and grant providers have different priorities because of all the issues facing Lebanon.”

Last year, the society received no funding at all for Jazz Week, according to Naiim. The community still found a way to put on the events, however. “Some venues kindly provided free entry by securing external funds or using their own resources, while others offered reasonable prices for our guests.” In the end, the 2025 iteration of Beirut International Jazz Week managed to host a record-breaking 30 performances.

For Naiim and others, this persistence reflects a broader determination to ensure the longevity of Lebanon’s relationship with jazz. “Jazz is all about finding ways for wrong notes to sound good,” Hosn says. “The new styles in Lebanon honor that tradition, reminding us that from every dissonance, something beautiful can emerge.”

“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.

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.