Anna Staropoli
Anna Staropoli is a freelance writer. She studied English, creative writing and geography at Dartmouth College. Since then, she’s written for national and international publications, including National Geographic, Food & Wine, and Italy’s La Repubblica.
Articles by Anna Staropoli
You can barely see the roads within Lanzarote's Timanfaya National Park—and that's intentional. When local architect and artist César Manriche designed projects for Lanzarote, one of Spain’s eight Canary Islands, in the 1960s, he homed in on nature, with a clear aim to preserve the island’s landscapes.
When my friend, Erik, first floated the idea of a self-piloted voyage along the Erie Canal, I did the math. From my apartment in Rochester, New York, I can drive west to the town of Spencerport in 21 minutes, 17 should the traffic lights cooperate. If heading east, I can make it to Pittsford in ten, though I usually stop at Wegmans en route, which tacks on another 30. The village of Fairport, meanwhile, requires 25 minutes behind the wheel—practically a road trip by Western New York standards.
Even the dogs in Toronto wear coats. Whether you’re shopping on Yonge Street or in Kensington Market, puffers don’t just appear in one-of-a-kind vintage stores or the sprawling Eaton Centre mall. Rather, they also cloak Toronto’s dachshunds and greyhounds, who strut through the city as unphased as their owners. On a weekend in December, a particularly spoiled French bulldog dons an embroidered Maple Leafs jersey, not unlike Carlton — the hockey team’s polar bear mascot.
On the outskirts of Yellowstone National Park, 128 alpacas peer over the latched fences of Powell, Wyoming’s Arrowhead Alpacas. On the day of my farm visit, owner Jan Sapp unlatches the first fence and fills my palms with feed. I crouch down with my arms outstretched, deferential to the curious animals. Most meet my efforts with unimpressed stares. Only after a few minutes does the bravest alpaca — or perhaps the hungriest — step forward, accepting my offer with a tickle of her tongue.
It’s 6:30 a.m., and I’m shivering on an open swath of land in South Dakota’s Black Hills, waiting for a plastic balloon to determine the course of my day. Damien Mahony, co-owner and pilot at Black Hills Balloons, released a birthday party-style balloon into the morning’s wind — a method to help gauge whether our much larger hot air balloon will take flight.
