Recipefiesta

Like many Alpine areas faced with declining snowfall, Villach had to make a difficult choice: bring in the snow cannons or reinvent itself

Walking up a winding trail in the Dobratsch nature park in Carinthia, surrounded by picturesque snowy slopes dotted with pines, we hear shrieks coming from round the corner. The path is as wide as a one-way street but Birgit Pichorner, the park ranger I’m taking a tour with, motions for me to move to the side, where we watch a couple with wide grins glide past on a wooden toboggan.

We have seen families out hiking with young children and speed walkers pacing for the summit, while on a trail above us, four skiers are zigzagging up one of the nature park’s designated ski touring routes. For residents of Villach, the southern Austrian town at the foot of Dobratsch, this is very much their Hausberg, a much-loved “locals’ mountain”, says Birgit.

The small city in the Lorraine region has been put on the map with the aid of two Parisian heavyweights – a loan from the Pompidou Centre and designer Philippe Starck’s quirky new hotel

As I stand and look at a six-metre skeleton of a domestic cat named Felix, the words of Alice in Wonderland spring to mind: “Curiouser and curiouser.” The sculpture is part of a thought-provoking and enchanting exhibition at the Centre Pompidou-Metz, and this isn’t the first time I’ve felt a sense of wonder during my weekend in this lesser-known city in north-eastern France. While most of us know what to expect from a city break in, say, Paris, Lyon or Bordeaux, Metz throws up surprises at every turn.

The giant feline sculpture is the work of Italian visual artist Maurizio Cattelan (of banana-duct-taped-to-a-wall fame), whose works form part of Dimanche Sans Fin (Endless Sunday), an exhibition he has curated that brings together more than 400 works from Paris’s Centre Pompidou, which closed for a five-year renovation last October. Each piece depicts a different way the “day of rest” could be interpreted, whether it’s the innocent play of Picasso’s sculpture Little Girl Jumping Rope (1950-1954) or Max Ernst’s figure playing chess in the King Playing with the Queen (1944).

Art is helping to revitalise Sicily’s ghost towns and deserted urban spaces, with the earthquake-hit town of Gibellina becoming Italy’s first Capital of Contemporary Art

From the ostentatious baroque square of Quattro Canti all the way up to the Teatro Massimo, Palermo’s Via Maqueda is thick with tourists. Pomegranate juice sellers are setting up pyramids of fruit on their carts at gaps in the crowd and waiters are trying to reel in passersby with happy hour prices for Aperol spritzes. Amid the noise and movement, it’s easy to walk straight past number 206, whose arched doorway features a stone cross stained black with dirt – a clue to the building’s former use.

Convento dei Crociferi was abandoned for 30 years, until Sicilian power couple Andrea Bartoli and Florinda Saievi took over and transformed it into Palermo’s newest arts space, the Museum of World Cities, due to open at the end of February. Inside, a cloister with high, scalloped porticoes frames a verdant courtyard filled with palms and banana trees. Bartoli comes to meet me and enthusiastically pumps my hand before leading me up to the grand, marble-floored rooms on the first floor, which have been given over to a rather self-referential exhibition on urban change.

There’s a lot more to LS Lowry than his matchstick men. A visit to the artist’s hometown reveals how his legacy helped turn a derelict dockland into the thriving creative hub of Salford Quays

My nan had one in her downstairs loo. An LS Lowry print, that is. It showed a street scene: 100-odd people, a few dogs, some mills in the background. I remember liking the work mostly because I could see myself in it, in a way that I couldn’t when faced with paintings of fruit or water lilies. I’ve had a soft spot for the painter ever since, and to mark the 50th anniversary of his passing, I travelled up to Manchester for a Lowry-themed break.

My first stop was the Manchester Art Gallery on Mosley Street, where a number of his works hang alongside those of his mentor, the French impressionist Pierre Adolphe Valette (Lowry took evening classes with Valette while working as a rent collector).

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We visited the Female Artists of the Mougins Museum, in Mougins, a small village on a hill near Cannes. Full of exclusively female artists – from Berthe Morisot in the 19th century and Frida Kahlo in the early 20th to contemporary figures such as Tracey Emin – it houses an incredible collection of often overlooked art and artists. We visited on a rainy October day and it was remarkably quiet and calm. I particularly enjoyed the abstract works – well worth a trip up the hill.
James

In celebration of the Milano Cortina Winter Olympics, which starts this week, paralympic swimming champion Simone Barlaam shares his favourite places in his hometown

Born in Milan in 2000, Paralympic swimmer Simone Barlaam, is a 13-time world champion who won three golds and a silver medal at the 2024 Paris Olympics. He’s a torchbearer and ambassador for the Milano Cortina Winter Olympic Games, which run from 6-22 February (the Paralympic Games run from 6-15 March) at sites across Lombardy and north-east Italy (with events such as speed skating, figure skating and ice hockey in the city). He also worked as a graphic designer for the games.

Barlaam grew up in Milan and lives in NoLo (North of Loreto), a vibrant, artistic neighbourhood. “I’ve lived all over the place, so I can take you around the city and the places that belong to my heart,” he says. Here, he chooses his favourite spots, beyond obvious sights such as the Duomo, La Scala opera house and the glossy Quadrilatero della Moda fashion district.

Despite hearing many words of warning about expressing public affection, travelling in Japan with my boyfriend helped me loosen up

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The first time I saw gay people on TV, it was during an ABC news package about Sydney’s Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras. My Egyptian parents were chomping through a bag of dried pumpkin seeds when the assault on our eyeballs took place.

Muscle bears in backless chaps, shirtless lifesavers in tiny budgie smugglers, chunky women with buzzcuts and saucer-plate nipples revving their Harley-Davidsons down the strip. It was too much for my father, who announced: “Atstaghfurallah: they should not show such things.” Mum just sucked her teeth in dismay. But the sight of all the handsome, gleaming men sent a hot flush of excitement up my 12-year-old cheeks.

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