"Cheese, Gromit!" The Wensleydale Creamery in Hawes, England

Smooth, creamy, crumbly or stinky, cheese is something I love. So when I stumbled upon a pamphlet about the Wensleydale Creamery just a few miles away from where my husband and I were traveling in North Yorkshire, I knew it was destiny.

In our rented gray-and-black Smart, we tooled along narrow, curving roads past hundreds of sheep, each sprayed an unnatural color to identify its home farm. The cartoonyness of these sheep foretold another cartoon presence: that of Wallace and Gromit, the famous claymation duo. Wallace is a huge fan of cheese, and one of his very favorites, it turns out, is "real Wensleydale cheese," from the one and only Wensleydale Creamery.

The place itself is just beyond a car park (that's British for "parking lot") with a sign stating the imminence of the creamery 200 yards up the road. Bypass the car park and you'll find the Wensleydale's own free parking (at the beginning of March, the low season for tourism, we found a spot). The price of entry is two pounds fifty (about $5), but if you present a brochure--available at most brochure displays; just look for Wallace and Gromit pictured on top--you can get in two-for-one.

For all its clay-won celebrity status, the creamery is still fairly quaint, with a small maze of informative displays about the making of Wensleydale cheese through the years. You'll see a very old stone press, plus all sorts of gadgets that will make you feel extremely smart the next time you and some friends stumble upon one and you start expertly explaining what that big metal thing with the gears does. Unlike at big-city museums, you can step into the displays and put your nose right up to the old machinery and relics of cheese making. My husband and I took about an hour to read all the displays, but you could also take the route of the little girl in front of us, who raced through in less than two minutes and hurried into the factory, itself.

Simply follow the helpfully-printed footprints in the creamery's lot, and step into the factory building. There, in regularly sterilized air, you can gaze through glass walls and watch (or wave to) real, live workers sifting and shoveling enormous vats of cheese. The quantity of cheese in each stainless steel tub is amazing, and each is stirred and prodded by experts. Wallace and Gromit, pictured on a cutout movie display, gaze at the onlookers (probably hungrily).

At the end of the tour, head into the gift shop and straight to the left-hand refrigerated room to tuck into some real (free) Wensleydale. We sampled about 12 flavors and settled on Wensleydale Blue, a small piece of which traveled with us for the next several days (since it was March, we refrigerated it by keeping it in our car). If you want to buy cheese as a gift, the cheese-selling girl suggested a waxed wheel, which tends to keep well. Small ones (enough for four people to each enjoy a sizable wedge) cost just a pound apiece (about $2).

The creamery has a nearly-new restaurant and coffee shop, both serving plenty of cheese-fortified items. We sampled a cheese scone. The prices aren't low, but they aren't exorbitant, and the atmosphere is charming.

And forever after, you'll know just what Wallace means when he says, "That's cracking cheese!"

Winding through Robin Hood's Bay, Yorkshire, England

"Do not, under any circumstances, attempt to drive to the bottom of the hill," stated my guide book. My husband and I were entering tiny, cobblestone-ridden Robin Hood's Bay (no relation to the prince of thieves) in Yorkshire, and found ourselves at the top of a San Francisco-esque hill, adjacent to the very car park (parking lot) our book predicted would be there. Now, we had a choice: continue driving down, or park and walk.

In spite of my husband's driving bravado, we decided to go by the book, and pay a few pence to park. (The car parks use a "pay and display" technique: buy a sticker at the machine in the lot, and stick it inside your windshield. We did see policemen checking them periodically, and the fine for failing to display is about $100.) Leaving the cute Smart car behind, we began scaling the vertiginous hill.

Because we were in town on a March weekday morning, unfortunately, most of the charming craft and souvenir shops were closed (during the off-season, they open on weekends only). It was nonetheless a pleasure to trip down the Alice in Wonderland-like cobblestone paths and peer into the scores of rental cottages set into the craggy rocks and wildflowers. We discovered one open antiques shop filled with beautiful wooden chairs, bone snuff boxes, and other genuinely old English items we couldn't dream of affording.

As we proceeded further down the hill, we saw at least three trucks pass us, some at a clip, and we started thinking we'd been duped by the guide book. When one truck stopped to unload at a tiny food mart, my husband wondered aloud why our book had said we couldn't drive down.

"You can't," the truck driver agreed. "When high tide rolls in, you'll get stuck at the bottom."

Wonderingly, we continued to the bottom of the hill, where we found low tide washing right up on our feet, and a single ice cream truck brazenly parked on the sand and steadied with rocks.  A sign warned drivers to remove themselves before the tide returned, and helpfully provided a number for the Coast Guard, should the tide come in unexpectedly soon.

After watching the swells of water eddying around the wet sand, we climbed the hill again and located a cute, modern-looking place appropriately named Swell. This turns out to be a gift shop/cafe/cinema that specializes in natural and organic foods as well as in exotic alcoholic drinks including burdock/dandelion root beer and blood orange/mandarin spritzer. Prices are moderate, and the place has a clean and convenient bathroom inside (enter through the cinema door).

After climbing back up the hill, we finished our visit perched above the town, gazing out over the far hills and the water below.

Robin Hood's Bay truly is picturesque as a storybook, a page from the dream-paintings of one's mind. Just be sure to park at the top, and let your heart soar out to sea.

The Victorian Spa Town of Scarborough

Archly situated on a cliff, gazing down on a beach that curves wide and long into a far collection of dollhouse-like houses climbing the rocky ledges, stand the vaulting, shining-windowed spa hotels of Scarborough in North Yorkshire, England. Birthed from a magical healing spring (the mineral-rich waters were discovered near the town during the 1620s, quickly leading to bottled water, bathing machines and, by 1875, a cliff tram), Scarborough still throngs today with enough tourists to fill an overabundance of bed and breakfasts, and a few decadently huge hotels that dominate the landscape.

My husband and I were recommended to the Crown Spa Hotel. We arrived at 9 p.m. after getting quite lost (there is one road that leads down to the Grand Hotel, against which we were recommended,  and one beside it that leads vertiginously up to the cliff, where The Crown stands in tandem with several other behemoths. We first took the wrong road).

The warmly-lit Crown features a lobby populated by forest-green and burgundy leather sofas and armchairs, all of which have shockingly deep cushions. I would have sat in one all day, had it not meant missing the surroundings--and the spa.

Admittedly, we were hesitant at first about staying at The Crown: 99 pounds per night meant approximately $200, and we wouldn't have time to enjoy the spa in the evening before it closed at 10 p.m. The friendly woman at the desk offered us a full-day pass for the following day plus free parking, and knocked the price down to 95 pounds but said she couldn't do any better. She kindly called ahead to another hotel to allow us to compare accommodations (they were charging 80 pounds).

After a visit, I determined that I didn't like the second hotel as much, and we returned to The Crown. The desk woman was so pleased that we'd returned, she knocked the price down to 75 pounds.

The Crown's basement is a full health spa with a sparkling gym, men's and women's locker rooms, and several healing rooms that made me feel as indulged as a delicate Victorian. I entered through the glass door etched "Pool/Sauna/Aroma." After passing a few showers created exclusively for foot washing, I found a blue-tiled, low pool with faux Roman statues throughout. At the beginning of March on a Monday morning, it was nearly empty and serene, with pool noodles available for water play. I chose to instead take my place in the large "spa pool," a warm bath with air jets. The tiled underwater ledge bubbled both warm and cold water at once.

Following a soak, I discovered a second room filled with lounge chairs, and surrounded by more glass-doored rooms: two saunas, a steam room, and one mysteriously marked "Aroma." I began with a hot sauna that proved to be too hot; then, tested a second sauna that was cooler. This one featured a ceiling dotted with pinpoints of light that slowly changed colors. I lay there enchanted, watching the spectrum of constellations until I could no longer breathe the heat, and moved to the steam room. This felt like walking into a fiery cloud where water condensed in my mouth and rolled down the back of my throat.

I retreated and, at last, entered the dimly-lit aroma room. I was greeted with perfumed warm air, absinthe-green glowing wall sconces, a trickling wall fountain and heated tiles. Lying back on a tile ledge, I breathed the pervasive scent of an essential oil mixture called "restore." I lay in the silence and inhaled subtle curls of scent.

Relaxed, my husband and I took a stroll outside along the "spa bridge," a long cement footbridge that connects the cliffbound hotels to its ground-level sisters, and  down steep staircases set into the cliff and curving toward the "spa complex." This is the restored sprawling building where the Victorians used to go for their treatments and rest. While the structure is currently closed for renovations, it was still awe-inspiring to see the many-domed, Gothic-style complex reveal itself through the skeletal trees. With an area for outdoor performances, a theater, and untold rooms within, the structure evokes a time when those who could afford to celebrated life as ostentatiously as life itself gave them time to do.

There is no fair in Scarborough. But there may well be the scent of rosemary, and the sweet, delicate smell of time.

Driving in reverse: My experience with the Smart Car in England

"Stay left," I said nervously as my husband pulled out of the Europcar rental lot at Branford Leeds Airport. "The left is your friend." I hoped that my eyes weren't popping as far out of my head as I felt they were. I don't remember the last time, other than this, my kneecap attempted to shake itself free or my intestines tried to invert. With wet fog thickening around our Smart car and the crumbling left edge of the road seeming to creep up on our vulnerable alloy wheels, I practiced yoga breathing.

Just after noon, we'd boarded the train at King's Cross in London and headed for Leeds. Be it known that the train is fast. Whip-fast. Dizzy-fast. Fast like two-and-a-half hours to Leeds instead of five via car. Fast, like every time we went through a tunnel, our eardrums went through a few G's.

Our reserved seats happened to be facing backwards at a cafe-style table, across from two friendly but silent men. The space between our sets of feet was so small that every time I adjusted, I kicked the man across from me. He was as unmoved as a Beefeater.

Though our seat choice may not have been optimal, had we not reserved seats, we'd have found ourselves sitting on the floor with a group of passengers who got progressively drunker and louder. Instead, we sat among the privileged: adjacent to a set of bleached-blonde girls in Chanel sunglasses, Chanel earrings, D&G white leather belt, tight pants and animal-print heels. When one of their phones rang, it was a gold Razr. (Knowing this, make your own seating choice.)

Once in Leeds, we stumbled with our suitcases to the information desk, where we were directed toward the bus to the airport. For two pounds ten pence apiece (about $4), we rode about 20 minutes to the small airport, where we had to decide how much insurance we were willing to buy to gird the car. In the U.S., our own car insurance, Geico, includes rentals, but Geico doesn't extend beyond American borders. Rats. We mournfully ended up adding about $120 (59 pounds seventy) for collision coverage with a 600 pound (about $1200) deductible. Without the insurance, we'd still be liable for $25,000. Since we'd never before driven from the passenger seat and on the wrong side of the road and I couldn't predict exactly how this experiment would go, I went with the collision insurance. Complete "peace of mind" insurance, with $0 deductible and complete coverage, would have cost $250, almost what we'd paid for a week with the car. That price made me want to give someone a piece of my mind.*

After analyzing six insurance packages and choosing one, we were sent out to the car park (that is, "parking lot" in British) to find our Smart car. We'd actually ordered a VW Golf "or similar." Having only seen the golf cart-sized Smarts in the U.S., we were worried, but it turns out that in Britain, the little Swatch-owned vehicle comes in a larger size. We trudged what seemed like half a mile in light rain, and located our black and gray vehicle. It was shockingly cute with a contrasting hood and body. I actually remembered to get in on the left (passenger) side. Then my husband started it, and I shook.

We slowly backed out of the lot, with me helpfully calling, "Left!" every few seconds. It worked. We headed directly left, and kept left, entirely in the wrong direction from where we wanted to go. We stopped at a video store and found a really nice local bloke who enthusiastically offered to lead us to the highway in his red Ford Puma. I shook a little less.

We did great until we tried to park in the town of Pickering. "Where's 'park?'" my husband asked, searching the gearshift. Thinking fast, I put the car in neutral and pulled the hand brake. Then, over an Italian meal at a little place called Tutti, I sheepishly asked our friendly waiter how he puts his car into "park."

"I put it in neutral and pull the hand brake," he said.

Feeling clever, we continued our very cute drive to the Victorian spa town of Scarborough.

* Two weeks after our return home, we discovered a $112 charge on our credit card statement. We thought it was the insurance charge. Two weeks later, the charge was removed. Another week later, the charge reappeared as $150. We called Europcar for the low-down. It turned out they'd (inexplicably) charged us for gasoline, a charge they would remove. However, the nice man at customer service also asked us why we'd bought insurance. He explained that since we were paying with a major credit card, the credit card gave us insurance. In fact, he said, everyone at Europcar knows that and should never have sold us insurance. "That's just rubbish," he huffed when we told him about the $24,000 liability. He put in a claim to have our insurance charge reversed. When we spoke to the claims desk, however, they denied the reversal.

Four crucial places to save pounds in London

In a city recently called the most expensive on Earth, where a cup of tea can run you five pounds ($10) and where you are guaranteed at some point to ask how anyone pays $8 a gallon for gasoline, a savvy traveler has to learn London's "secret savings spots." Here's how to save a few hundred bucks:

Phone calls. At Le Meriden Hotel in Piccadilly, a local call from the room costs two pounds per minute. Yes, that's $4 per minute. A local call from the room to a UK cell phone is $6.50 per minute. Want to phone home in America? Get ready to fork out more than $16 a minute. That's $160 for a ten-minute hello. What if you have friends in the middle east? One minute will put you out $30. But wait, there is an escape clause here. There's a pay phone in our hotel (and many on the streets), and a local call costs 40p (eighty cents). That bought us at least ten minutes, and may cover as long as you can talk (we made a call and ran out of things to say before our 40p ran out).

The underground. Your first option: the single fare, which starts at four pounds. That's a whopping $8 one way, inside what's known as "Zone One" (central London). Travel further, and the price goes up a few more pounds. Round-trip fares are a slightly better deal. But what if you're simply heading for the airport or another one-way destination? A local friend told me about the "Oyster Card." "Basically," he said, "tourists in London get hosed." The locally-beloved Oyster Card, on the other hand, available at news shops, will run you a three pound deposit and a minimum five pound "top-off" (that's the amount you put on the card). But once you start using it, a fare costs as little as one pound fifty. That's three dollars instead of eight. Your next option is an unlimited Zone One and Two three-day travel card, which will run you about $30.

Movies. My husband had the passing thought of seeing a film one evening. "It'll cost more than it does in the states," I predicted. After all, everything we've seen so far has cost about double what it does back home. (And restaurant dishes are half as large. Expect it.) We entered the Odeon theater at 40 Leicester Square. Okay, Leicester Square is the Times Square or Champs-Elysees of London. Back home, movies cost one price, within fifty cents, wherever one goes. At Leicester Square, a seat will run you 12 pounds 50 (prices are a little cheaper for less prime seats; cinemas here sell individual seats, as for live shows). That is to say, two tickets for Blood Diamond would put us out fifty bucks. I really don't want to see it that badly. My husband teased the ticket seller for being rich. He said, "It's Leicester Square. They're trying to steal from the tourists. Further out, you'd pay a lot less." How much less? "I pay three pounds fifty," he said. See your movies outside the dead center of London.

Internet. Hooking up to the wi-fi at Le Meridien is about a dollar a minute, and approximately the same fee at internet cafes. But my husband has a Blackberry. For $19 per month, pro-rated (that's $7 for the ten days of our vacation), he opened the phone to international usage, and that includes email. A phone call runs .99 per minute, but e-mail typed from the little Blackberry keypad is free.

We're feeling smug about our fat wallets. After all, London is one place where everyone wants to keep their pounds on them.

Mind the gap: Walking London's mysterious drawbridge, Tower Bridge

Massive, with Draconian stone towers hulking over the Thames, London's Tower Bridge appears as a fortress daring anyone to attack. In fact, what seems to be solid, old stone is actually mere facing disguising a monstrous core of steel--one so dense that doubters thought such a bridge couldn't possibly stand. And Tower Bridge is, as I learned on a fantastic tour (five pounds fifty; about $10), riddled with secrets.

The dun "stone," with its upper and lower walkway and elfishly small, wooden doors unexpectedly peering out of the bridge walls, has always looked medieval to me. In fact, the original design was conceived to please decision-makers who were righteously opposed to any modern- or industrial-looking blot on the Tower of London's riverscape. A new bridge, especially one this large, needed to appear natural if it hoped to be approved by the elders in charge. So in the 1880s, architect Sir Horace Jones drew up an incredible facsimile of old England, but with modern gears and a steam engine inside.

While I'm sure that all the tower's guides are excellent, I recommend the one who led my tour: a blue-eyed, soft-spoken gentleman named Geoff Wooltorton. Every step he took across the upper walkway--a glassed-in span with several small sets of steps for elevated viewing--Geoff had a story to make us tour-goers gasp or laugh with the amazed sense of knowing something new, a secret of the bridge.

The first whisper: It's because of Tower Bridge road rage that the English now drive on the left. "In those days [the late 1800s]," said Geoff, "people had horse-drawn carts. They'd hold the whip in their left hand and the reins in their right. They'd drive in the center of the road, and use their left hands to whip any passing driver who annoyed them." So a law was passed: Drive only on the left. That way, the whipping hand would be aligned with the wall, not with another driver.

Then there's the creepy spot called Dead Man's Hole, at the base of the bridge. "Don't ever let anyone tell you that was named for suicides," announced Geoff. "Tower Bridge was never a favorite spot for  uicides." The truth: "That area was part of a slum. When anyone died there, their family couldn't afford burial. So any bodies would be slid into the water at night, from that spot."

And there's the hidden party spot at the bridge. To find it, look to one of the small, wooden doors along the bridge. This is the bridge master's flat. Those in the know have weddings performed inside--that is, inside the bridge, itself. The reception (or any other type of party) can be held on the twin upper walkways (they run almost side by side across the bridge, both glassed in and warm): one will hold the buffet; the other, a band and space for dancing (as close to "on air" as one can imagine, with a  panoramic view of London and the water far below).

While only partially obscured from view, downstairs is the not-to-be-missed old engine room. Originally, the two 1200-ton arms of the bridge rose on steam power, but today, the two coal ovens that heated it are unused and sparklingly restored (the bridge is now automated). The enormous turbine wheels, all painted avocado green with black and red pinstriping, make impressively huge revolutions against the backdrop of a turning metal egg that resembles something from Edison's laboratory or Da Vinci's sketches. It
is gaspworthy.

Finally, the secret to scheduling a great viewing: Check online. The bridge closes several times a day for scheduled drawbridge lifts, which are truly impressive with tall ships passing beneath. They are less impressive for drivers. One day in 1950, a double-decker found itself leaping, Speed-style, over a three-foot gap created when the bridge rose...with the bus still on it. So while you're discovering the many hidden charms of the bridge...just be sure to mind the gap.

Untangling the knotty web of great British transport (how to get on the love train if the system doesn't love you)

Synchronizing a car rental in Leeds with a train ride from London could put standardized math tests to shame. "If a train leaves Kings Court on 4/3/07 at 13:00, and arrives in Leeds at 9/3/07 at 15:32, what time can you rent a car?" It's a trick question: the rental agency is closed on Sundays, and 9/3/07 happens to be the Christian sabbath (that date is in the European format, of course). Let's backtrack on this crazy railroad.

My husband and I are booking our trip to London and Scotland. Our first three days will be spent in London, the details of which were carefully booked by some other sucker--er, nice person. I appreciate that nice person so much now that my husband and I  have almost killed each other three times while trying to independently book the remainder of our vacation. I hope that sharing our fumblings and bumblings might save you some time, and perhaps quiet your desire to kill.

We started innocently at the National Rail website, the online hub for train bookings throughout Great Britain. Our first revelation: National Rail doesn't run the train companies that crisscross the land. It simply collects all their schedules here, like an airline fare clearinghouse (say, Expedia). We targeted a fare we wanted, and decided to pay for it. But there was no payment button to click.

We called the National Rail directly, and were told to click through to the specific railroad company that's offering that fare, GNER. That site offers a 10% discount for booking online. Fantastic! We searched for the fare we'd just found on the National Rail site. It wasn't there.

We called GNER, were quoted a new, slightly higher fare at a different time than that we'd found on the National Rail site, and were told to book it online in order to save money. We shrugged and agreed.

First, the Kings Cross London station--the only station from which this particular fare leaves--didn't appear on the screen. There were two other Kings Cross options, but we were told over the phone that those were "not it." We needed to switch from the Safari browser to Firefox in order to reveal the right Kings Cross.

Next, we went through the online registration process. We gave our names and our moms' names and our dogs' names and our favorite colors--suffice to say that the process was long. We finished it. Then it told us that our postal code was not valid. After several attempts in different browsers, we called GNER again. "Is it possible that we can't pay for the fare online because we don't live in Britain?" we asked.

"That's right," said the operator. "You have to live in Britain to book online."

Funny, then, that the site has a pull-down menu for every nation in the world.

Ultimately, we booked our tickets over the phone: for approximately $240, both of us will ride from Kings Cross, London (the right one) to Leeds, and back. The 10% we might have saved by booking online became at least a 10% surcharge in the form of phone calls to Britain.

That said, the phone booking took place just in time to keep us from eviscerating each other, and the hospital charges we saved on that are surely a small fortune.

Renting a car in Europe (and still driving happily to the bank)

When I lived (briefly) in London, a too-posh friend devised a trick for remembering which way to look before crossing the street: Ralph Lauren. That is, look right (Ralph), then left (Lauren). I used this trick religiously, and simultaneously vowed that if it was this hard for me to remember how to walk across the British streets, I must not endeavor to drive on them.

But today, I'm married to a man who's lived all over the world, and who fears no road. (I barely held him back from driving a scooter through the unpaved streets-without-lanes in India, at rush hour, when honking buses, rickshaws, motorcycles, cows, pigs and goats fight their way through the road, some at top speed, some at low speed, all at once, all in different directions). This week, for our first anniversary, we're heading to Great Britain. He wants to rent a car in Leeds and drive up to Edinburgh.

Friends and guide books insisted that we'd pay far more if we did the renting in the U.K. than if we did it here in America. So I loaded up Google and searched for "Europe favorite rental car." While I searched, my husband got on the phone with Avis. Renting an economy automatic car for five days, he found, would run about $450. He could save $100 by taking a stick-shift. I had some ideas about where they could stick their shift.

Online, extensive clicking led me to Europcar, where I found the comparatively paltry rate of $200 for a manual "mini" car. But since I don't drive manual, and because the animals in Scotland can generally dwarf a Volkswagen, I thought the mini size might not be prudent. So I searched further, and found an automatic Hyundai, all taxes included, for $283 if I paid up front ($319 if I didn't). I decided to call Europcar directly to be sure I was getting the best price. A nice operator named Jenny quoted me $444. She noted that Europcar's prices "can be lower online."

Yet more intriguingly, I checked the prices online in British pounds instead of in dollars. The same car would run me 245 pounds--that's almost $500! Be careful when you book: clicking the wrong currency can lead to a very nasty conversion rate on your credit card later.

I comparison-checked Europebycar. Though one blog praised it, the layout of the site reminded me of an ad for repossessed cars, so I skipped it. Another site, Autoeurope, quoted me $350 and up for an automatic ride.

I'm feeling good about the little Hyundai we've rented without A/C (it's winter; I can only hope we need the A/C). Should I be nervous that I looked up the model and discovered that it's being marketed in India? Perhaps not: if it can dodge animals in Delhi, it might be a natural highland cow-protector.

Here's betting I get into the car on the wrong side at least twice. As long as I don't let in a sheep, I think I'll be all right.

Photo credit: Billy's Captures.

An inexpensive taste of enlightenment (there's nothing like om cooking): New York's Ayurveda Cafe

In spite of its well-deserved reputation for pricey meals, New York also hides some dining bargains for locals in the know. But when a friend recommended the vegetarian Ayurveda Cafe (706 Amsterdam Avenue), my "trendy-and-expensive" alarms went off. After all, ayurveda--the Indian body care system based on treating the body with herbs and foods elementally suited to that person's body type (for instance, sweet potatoes are said to be warming while cucumbers are cooling)--is very much in vogue. It can also be complicated to follow.  One aspect of the system involves eating only foods that are in season, and that come from a certain palette of flavors: sweet, salty, astringent, sour, pungent, and bitter.

"I heard that there's no menu," my friend told me. "You just sit down, and they serve you whatever they're cooking that day." I pictured a stark white cafe overlooking the city, where the moment I sat, a waiter dressed in a traditional Indian salwar suit would bring me an impeccable plate of hot rice and something curried. I considered that I didn't want to get there before my friend did because I would be served first, and...then what? Would I eat so the dish wouldn't get cold, and then end up full before she arrived? And what if I didn't like the dish of the day?

It's said that one shouldn't focus on the way one expects things to turn out, because the universe may be planning something better. The actual restaurant experience was nothing like I imagined. The entrance to the small cafe is on street level, and the inside is humbly decorated with an altar to Ganesh, the elephant-headed deity of prosperity. The walls are peeling in places, and the tables are simple, diner-style, with paper menus sandwiched under transparent glass tops. "How many?"  a pretty, young Indian woman smiled as I entered.

"Two," I said, and she nodded and gestured toward a table. I sat, and the woman served me a basket of crispy flat bread. No more food came until my friend arrived.

The dish of the day, it turns out, is actually several dishes. It's a thali plate, which is a large dish holding a circle of tiny bowls, each filled with a different taste. All six ayurvedic flavors were represented in raita (yogurt with something white and tender that might have been lotus root); two curried vegetable mixtures; dal (lentil soup), a vegetable fritter and a sweet dessert. The dishes come with Basmati rice or brown rice. I'd read in an online review of the place that diners can ask for seconds, so we did. The price of the all-you-can-eat thali plate: $12.00 (lunch is $8). Bread for dipping (chapati) and water are included; other beverage choices cost extra.

By the time dessert came, our waitress was afraid that my friend and I, both petite, wouldn't be able to handle it. We had no problem devouring the delicate, cream-colored pudding that texturally resembled couscous.

Throughout the meal, a tape of Indian chants and a span of "Omm" played on the speaker system. "I like this," my friend said, mid-om. "It makes me want to sit up straighter." Then the tape skipped, and our good posture collapsed into laughter. It's hard not to smile in the cafe's no-pretense atmosphere.

Not only is the price low, but with an ayurvedic treatment (offered upstairs), your meal is actually free. Having tasted enlightenment, I plan to return for another helping.

All you can eat, and then some: Willow Valley Farms

Quilts, bonnets, horse-drawn carriages and miles of sheep-dotted hills...this is the Amish country in and around Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Today, a warm weekend packs the roads with traffic, and many areas that were once grazing land have been filled with restaurant chains and strip malls. But the Amish farming way of life, with its one-room schoolhouses, feed stores and tradition of handmade clothing, still exist.

Clever tourists can set themselves up at the high-tech-friendly nerve center of the area: Willow Valley Farms resort, a place where you can start to experience the culture and get insider tips on how to find back-roads treasures. Twenty-five years ago, the Mennonite-owned complex was a small, golden-lit hotel with a pool and a Pac-Man machine. What made it famous, however--and what would ultimately require it to expand tremendously--was its smorgasbord. Imagine entering a fairyland of food where every dish is made from fresh, local ingredients. Picture a place where each delight has its own miniature neighborhood: the land of salads and dressings; the bar of hot meat dishes (scrapple, made from pork, is a local favorite); the area of seafood (a friend once joyfully made a dinner of shrimp cocktail and chow mein noodles); and the ultimate food heaven: the breathtaking donut, pie and ice cream bar, featuring nearly all the sugary confections created in the bakery downstairs. How to choose between a cream-filled maple-glazed puff and fresh coconut creme pie a la mode? One cannot, and must devour both.

Bring big clothes. Lest you think this is a hedonist place, it is quite the opposite: owned by a Mennonite family, the resort prides itself on being family-friendly and almost (but not quite) religious, with a no-smoking and no-alcohol policy. You'll find Christian books in the gift shop, and on occasion, a mini Bible near the phone booths. That said, all creeds are welcome, and the staff will gladly help you chart a day trip through the Amish country.

While both Amish and Mennonites hold similar beliefs and may dress similarly, the Amish live without most modern technology, while most Mennonites use electricity. Hence this 90-acre resort is every bit as plush as a Disney hotspot, with a nine-hole golf course, indoor and outdoor pools, a sauna and exercise room, huge water slide, multiple restaurants, and a gorgeous atrium where weddings are held (the atrium hotel rooms are particularly beautiful, overlooking the banquet floor).

For low-tech fun, pick up some day-old bread for the ducks (at the bake shop), and feed them at the beautiful outdoor pond, or walk through the nearby covered bridge. Just remember to save room for dinner. The whole package, including the smorgasbord, runs a slim $119 per night. Expect that to be the only thing that remains slim when you leave.