We were in Munich, a quick hour-and-a-half drive to Salzburg, Austria, so we rented a car with GPS and were there before we even had to pee. (You can also take a train from Munich). Salzburg is  the birthplace of Mozart and where The Sound of Music was filmed and really looks like a town you would find in a fairy tale.  A large castle can be seen up in the mountain, and there's a tunnel with gorgeous carvings on the outside. You can just imagine Cinderella in a carriage drawn by flying horses and everyone waving and smiling, like when the good witch of the north leaves Munchkinland and all the munchkins wave goodbye.

I was asked directions by some Italian tourists as soon as we got out of the car -- a knack I seem to have wherever I am; I always get asked directions. I guess I must look like I know where I am going when I should be wearing a T-shirt that says, "Don't ask me, I'm lost too." Funny, the town is so full of tourists, I am not really sure who lives there.

We stayed on the other side of the mountain and walked through it -- there is a walking tunnel. My friends stayed at the Blauegans Art Hotel, on the main, adorable Getreidegasse street (built in the 12th century, it was formerly the only town thoroughfare). The hotel is not cheap, but reasonable for its location and very friendly and arty -- old meets new. The room my friends got came with a warning: "Don't be afraid of the art on the wall of your bedroom; it is by a famous artist." It was a scribbled graffiti expressionist mess, which is probably why they warned us -- I am sure they give this warning from getting calls from guests complaining. We decided the scribble scrabble ultimately looked like a penis.

The room and the whole hotel are fun and most definitely arty, with well thought-out design of the space and care put into it. Bright green felt wool chairs, long grass stalks in thick glass vases as bedside adornments: a nice blend of the building being very old and the carefully planned modern pieces. The bathroom was spacious and had a deep tub and a frosted glass door. They let us borrow an umbrella to go out into the rainy day in the gingerbread town that is Salzburg.

We were there during the Tanz Festival and saw solo pieces by modern dance choreographers Anne Teresa De Keersmaeker at the famous Republic theater and later, Meg Stuart at another venue.

Here are the quick Salzburg highlights. Really the town itself is just worth cruising around without any destinations, you will find everything. Mozart is everywhere you look: on candy, on signs; he is not something you will lose sight of there. It is a big festival town for the arts, opera, music, theater, and dance as well as art exhibits and museums. Speaking of which, a museum is in the place where Mozart was born, Mozart's Geburtshaus. It was cool to see but not that exciting. It reminded me of seeing Liberace's sleeping quarters in Las Vegas, with much less flash.

The rosary exhibit at the Cathedral Museum (or Dommuseum) really made us say "Oh my Goth": a collection of prayer beads and rosaries, gems and such. I wanted to put them all on at once. There is also Mozart Square, with a statue of Wolfie for all to admire. Getreidegasse is an uber-quaint shopping street that winds all the way through town and has all the usual boutique shops, from upscale to H+M, as well as a few Christmas (in July) stores and also an Easter store -- for the tourists, I must assume? I think the tourist who loves the Christmas Tree Shoppe in the U.S. must go wild for these. We got suckered into a tiny chocolate store and spent way too much on what turned out to be a mistake: a costly mediocre chocolate bar covered with pink peppercorns. And speaking of suckered, don't let the Mozartkugeln get you. They're everywhere:  chocolate balls filled with praline and pistachio. A Rocher is way better, trust me.

Between dance performances we ate dinner at Triangle restaurant (reservations recommended): nice wines and Sekt, German Prosecco, and delicious food with veggie options, including nice big salads (very important too me).

If we had been able to stay another day and it hadn't been raining, into the mountains we would have gone. The hills are alive in Salzburg, you know.

Theo Kogan is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Fashion & Design. Her THEOlogy column appears Tuesdays and Thursdays. Today she is trading spaces with Travel & Leisure editor Cathay Che.

The thing about living in New York City is that even if you don't travel, people come to you.  People from all over the world bring their holidays, traditions, and foodstuff with them, which can make an average weekend here very cosmopolitan, without the hassle of going back and forth to the airport.

Case in point: On Sunday, I made the trek from Manhattan out to Brooklyn, where most of my reasonable friends now live.  In case you are unfamiliar with the Manhattan vs. Brooklyn debate, I'll sum it up for you.  A decade ago, you could move to Brooklyn, pay less rent, and have more space.  And if you did it then, you were smart, because now, if you move to Brooklyn, you may have more space, but you'll still be paying $2,000+ a month.

Truth be told, there are a lot of people who prefer to live in Brooklyn, even if they can afford Manhattan, just because the neighborhoods are more authentic and teeming with attitudes and scenes of their own.  Williamsburg, DUMBO, and Fort Greene are the hip areas, filled with nubiles and their big dreams.  But my 30-something friends generally live in one of two areas: Park Slope off 5th Avenue, a very established, white, Berkeley-progressive area for crunchy yuppies, dominated by designer ergonomic baby carriages and expensive children's hairdressers and boutiques; or off Smith Street in Cobble Hill/Carroll Gardens, a still very white and wealthy strip, but more European and adult with Parisian-style cast-iron street lamps and an abundance of day spas.

And it was Cobble Hill/Carroll Gardens where I went to scratch my Francophile itch and celebrate Bastille Day with the gang at Bar Tabac.  Smith Street was closed off between Bergen and Pacific so that a dump truck could lay down some sand.  Not for French-style topless sunbathing, alas, but for the largest petanque tournament in North America (that's the French game that is a distant relative of horseshoes and the first-cousin of Italian bocce).

It was very crowded and boiling hot with very little shade, but I was happy sipping on my Lillet and champagne cocktail and munching on some pomme frites (French fries, mon amour) with mustard.  My friends and I had made a pact to speak only in French that day, so there wasn't a lot of deep conversation, and as I wandered by the guillotine with the rubber severed head of Marie Antoinette, I found myself missing the Restaurant Florent celebration of Bastille Day (that would never be again now that my favorite spot is closed and gone).  Florent use to dress up as Marie Antoinette, and the staff would be decked out in what I call the "Les Miserables look": dirty peasant wear with blackened teeth.  The "peasants" always looked like they might not only revolt but cannibalize you as well, which was part of the fun. 

Still, I loved the faux Frenchiness of the Bar Tabac gathering, running into people without planning it (funny how shared sensibilities can make a city of eight million seem like a small town), and having what felt like a few hours outside of the normative Starbucks and football aesthetic of the United States.

As much as I'm inclined to deride Brooklyn (after all, I am the last Manhattan hold-out in my peer group, saved by my rent-stabilized apartment), if you are visiting New York City this summer, you should definitely check it out.  If you can't swing a dinner at the Brooklyn outposts of Blue Ribbon or Mary's Fish Camp, budget-friendly activities with great people watching include free concerts in Prospect Park (like Brazilian Girls and Beth Orton) and free open-air movies at the MaCarren Pool.

I go out to Brooklyn on the weekends quite a bit, and now suffer the dreaded stigma once preserved for crowds coming into Manhattan from Brooklyn, the Bronx, Queens, and Staten Island. It's reverse snobbery, but the hipsters of Brooklyn now refer to Mahattanite me as "bridge and tunnel."

Cathay Che is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Travel & Leisure. She posts every Tuesday and Thursday.

There were a lot of firsts for me as I prepared for my trip to the Paws up Resort in Montana, the most interesting was a document I had emailed to me called "You and Your Horse".  This three-page brief detailed how the wranglers would match us to our assigned horses based on our "riding experience, physical size, and attitude".  We were instructed to let our new horse smell us first, and to give friendly, reassuring pats on the shoulder and neck.  

The document also said to avoid ponchos (horses are afraid of these fringy fashion faux pas).  Interesting.  And my heart sank after I read this line:  "All clothing should be in dull colors with no neon or bright colors that can easily spook horses."

Horses had always spooked me.  Closer to elephants in size, I had no dewy-eyed romance about their towering frames, bony appendages, hard-shelled feet, and reputation for being bad-tempered.  Volumes of literature have been devoted to little girls and their desire for ponies, and young women, on the verge of ripeness, who have special feelings for their horses.  But being a city kid, I was never in a position to have or ride horses, and thus, I've never known or loved one.

In my last blog, I detailed the treachery of the 10 hours I spent on horseback, but what I didn't mention was how much I liked and learned from my horse, Kodiak, for the three days and two nights of that adventure.

Dark brown (almost black), Kodiak was a hearty-looking draft horse (strong, shorter legs, thicker around the middle), obviously quite well-fed, with kind, curious eyes.  The first thing about him I related to was that, much like my 5-pound Chihuahua, his entire existence seemed to be motivated by the pursuit of a unexpected snack.  He was docile and took direction well except when a nice patch of grass or a river stream caught his eye.  Then he would go his own way, animal instincts and nostrils flaring.

I learned from the wranglers that horses live 25 to 30 years (Kodiak is all of six).  If just standing around in a pasture, they need 20 gallons of water and 20 pounds of hay just for maintenance.  If they are active, they need 35 pounds of hay, thus the expense of keeping one.  Apparently, the grass they love to graze on provides little by way of nutrients, so one must buy them quality hay.

But I think I learned the most from just watching the backside of the horse in front of me during the long trek up to and down from Encampment at Bull Creek.  First of all, being around horses means being assaulted by the constant smell of horse poop.  The horse in front of me would shake a bit when he was about to let go, then he would lift his tail gracefully, and bombs away, barely breaking stride.  Other times, he would just lift tail and let out an blast of gas.

Kodiak was extra gassy, which I was told was my fault for giving him my green apple cores.  But especially when we were snaking along narrow mountain trails with steep drop-offs down a couple hundred feet to the river, I wanted him to have a reason to keep me alive.  Luckily, Kodiak had no suicidal tendencies: in fact, I sometimes saw him looking down the sheer drop with the same panic I felt.

Kodiak wasn't the smartest horse.  That award might have to go to Tigger, who the wranglers called the ugliest horse they had ever seen.  He was a muddy brown color with a kind of random Jackson Pollack-effect splatter of grey, but he could scratch his butt with no hands, by rubbing up against a tree.  He also liked to cool off by letting his big business hang out for all of us to admire, unfortunately, it was an unappetizing sight during our lunch break.

As far as riding Kodiak, I learned the first day, to sit up straight: to bounce along with him and not clench his sides so much with my knees.  Also, I figured out that it would have been less painful if I'd had a protective layer between my denim jumpsuit and my skin.  And long socks that went over the knee to provide an extra layer there, would have been smart too.  And it's important to work with the horse by sitting in the middle back groove, leaning forward when you go downhill, and leaning back when you go uphill.

The horse wranglers taught me a things too, like how to perfectly toast a marshmallow in a campfire (get it smokin' but never let it catch on fire) to make "the last, best s'more": graham crackers, toasted marshmallow, peanut butter and a squirt of Hersey's chocolate sauce.  Yum.  And they also tried to teach us to play horseshoes.  It's a simple enough set-up: you stand behind a line and pitch the horseshoe.  It's 3 points around the stake, 2 points leaning against the stake and 1 point if the shoe is within a horseshoe distance from the stake.  And they spoke about lonely nights without female company, near escapes from grizzly bears and their favorite huckleberry milkshakes.  They also spoke fondly of the old days in Montana when there was no speed limit and you could drink a beer and have a loaded gun in the car.  They also told me any person could officiate a marriage in Montana, as long as they were deemed suitable by the couple.  It was like a non-gay version of Brokeback Mountain. Even if they did have to reluctantly help pick ticks off each other.

But back to Kodiak.  I came to see him and his kind as large dogs, with varying personality traits.  When treated well, they could be absolutely lovable, but cost and arm and leg to keep, especially if you had no practical use for them.  I certainly  appreciated the fact that I didn't have to walk the 26 miles up and back from the camp, even though at times, I thought I might have preferred it.  And the wranglers told me it was mules who were ornery by nature, not horses. 

When I said goodbye to Kodiak at the end of the trip, it was a bit rougher than expected.  I was pleased he lived here at Paws Up, I told myself.  I certainly couldn't keep him in my apartment in New York City, and I thanked him with the gift of one last, gastronomically distressing treat -- a whole Granny Smith.

Cathay Che is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Travel & Leisure. She posts every Tuesday and Thursday.

About five years ago, I randomly purchased a book called How to Stay Alive in the Woods by Bradford Angier.  Given that I found it in a fancy home decor store, I think the green rubber-bound volume with safety orange print was meant to be ironic, aimed at a dedicated urban dweller, like me, whose absence of knowledge about the natural world is profound.  

As a New Yorker, I can perfectly navigate the maze of Manhattan streets and bus routes, sizing up potential predators (hostile crackheads, speeding taxis, pitbulls) and prey (cafes with excellent lattes, sample sales, clean-ish public restrooms).  But if Internet/cellphone/GPS civilization as I know it suddenly crumbled, it's doubtful I'd be able to last very long "living off the land".

Knowing this, however, has never been enough to prompt me to change (the aforementioned book remains unread).  And though I'm not a mandatory high-heels and make-up wearing kind of gal, I would definitely put camping high on the list of "Not My Idea of Fun".  Perhaps then, it was an over-abundance of city hotels and beach resorts that recently tempted me into the wilderness of Montana by the promise of five-star camping or "glamping".

Paws Up, "the last best place," was as pretty as its website pictures: lots of tall, spindly trees, rolling green plains, and the expected big sky (it really does seem bigger in Montana).  Owned by a family who made some of their fortune via Fredericks of Hollywood and SuperCuts, it was a tad tedious to get to: a two-hour flight from New York to Chicago, followed by a three-hour flight to Missoula, one of the state's progressive hubs (as evidenced by the popularity of "Keep Missoula Weird" bumper stickers).  From there, it was about a 30-minute drive to the resort's 60 square miles of adventure, where one could stay in River Camp or Tent City (a dozen 270-square-foot tents with real beds, electricity, and butlers); get rubbed down in Spa Town (10 treatment tents); or drive ATVs (this is apparently what the Rolling Stones did when they stayed here), fly-fish, repel, go tubing and white-water rafting (in summer), or go dog-sledding, skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, and ice skating (in winter).  The site of the resort is a working ranch that was once owned by the son of Charles Lindbergh.

Montana itself is sort of intriguing as well.  Though rich people from California love to buy second homes here, the state is fourth largest in size, but ranks 47th in terms of density of people per square mile (the total population is not even a million).  Why is a place this lovely so unappealing?  Well, the winters are very long, rumored to last from October to June.  Also, the state isn't very developed -- which is why it's so pristine, preserved in time as it must have looked when Lewis & Clark traversed it -- but there aren't a lot of job opportunities.  This explains why there is no sales tax in Montana.

But back to "glamping". Well, apparently, I didn't read the fine print on my invitation.  My first night at Paws Up River Camp was fine, except for the fact that I had to share my tent and my one place of solace, my bathroom (which was chic with modern plumbing and heated floors), with someone else: namely the publicist for the resort.  At night, you fall asleep to the soothing sound of the Blackfoot River (this is the river that inspired the famous Montana novel, A River Runs Through It).  Also, with a price tag of $675/night, though everyone who worked at the resort was friendly and attentive, I was shocked that the food (included in the meal plan) was lackluster, and nothing ran smoothly (we waited until 4 p.m. to check into our tents).  Still, had I stayed there, I probably would have enjoyed myself.

But instead, the second day we had to pack up and head out on a Paws Up excursion to Encampment at Bull Creek, an adventure that started with a five-hour trek on horseback.  It would have been one thing if we were a bunch of journalists from Outside or National Geographic Adventure, but as it were, there were four of us who had never spent more than an hour on a horse our entire lives.  The dead giveaway were the fashions we donned for the day:  one had a pair of black boots with 4-inch heels; another wore a pair of $500 Cole Haan soft calfskin boots in whiskey brown; and, not being a big fan of jeans (the suggested attire), I decided on a vintage '70s denim jumpsuit.

I am going to devote my entire next blog to my horse, Kodiak, but suffice it to say that after just the first two hours, snaking up the mountain on a rubble trail with steep cliff drop-offs, I was rubbed raw in a place on my body I didn't even know could hurt (inner upper thigh near your anus).

When we finally made it to camp after nearly a whole day of dead silence (all of the participants, including our cowboy guides, were either too exhausted or mortified to speak), we arrived at the camp site.  To be fair, with real camping, we would have had to set up our own tents and cook our own food, and we wouldn't have been sleeping on such comfy cots.  That was taken care of for us by a really lovely woman who stayed up at the camp site for the whole summer season (bless her).  But given that people pay $1,200 for this 48-hour experience, I was expecting something better than the second grader school lunches (Doritos, white bread with ham and cheese, and Oreo cookies anyone?); the stinking long-drop outhouse (two of my colleagues later confessed to me that they didn't poop for the whole two days we were there); and having to pick ticks off myself.

I would compare the endless trek up on horseback to Encampment (or Internment, as I would come to refer to it) to an 18-hour flight to Johannesburg in coach.   But even exhausted, I didn't sleep peacefully because nature continued to test me.  I awoke twice with a cricket on my face.  Also, I had to pee badly, but rather than gather my Bear Bell (yes, a bell to prevent sneaking up on bears, but which I thought might rather alert mountain lions to come attack me) and head up to the horror-show outhouse, I decided to pee into a cup and pour it out a few feet away from my tent for the deer (we were told the deer were stalking us for our pee: They needed the salt).

The next day might have been okay if we had been able to rest, but instead we were rallied for a three-mile hike to a glacier lake the locals call Dead Horse (nice).  Three miles didn't sound too bad: I mean, I go to the gym and do that on a treadmill several times a week.  But I didn't realize the climb would be 2,000 feet straight up to an elevation of 7,300 feet.  I was huffing and puffing, my head was pounding with the onset of altitude sickness, and I was so miserable, I thought I might actually expire.  Again, no one said anything.  We walked in silence, at some points through the snow, at some points sweating like marathon runners, feeling like we couldn't complain to our cowboy hosts who already thought we were a bunch of soft city fillies.

The weird thing is that once we got to the glacier lake, it was a non-event.  Sure, it was pretty, but there weren't even blankets to sit on, just the dirt and patches of grass, as we dug into day two of all-American crap foods.  We had each paid $25 for a fishing license, so our guides talked us through hooking a few tiny trout (all of them released back into the river).  At one point, I was lying down and trying to relax when the guide hooked me right in the armpit.  When he came to take the hook back, he ripped it out of my shirt, only afterwards asking, "Oh, was it in your skin too?"

I know for a fact that I was the biggest complainer on the trip.  I was sick of me too.  It just wasn't what I thought I had signed up for and my mind boggled.  How did I end up here?  Yes, Montana is quite beautiful, but the idea of paying $600 a day to be tortured and made miserable seemed ludicrous.  I think I could have managed to do it some other way in some other locale Rachael Ray-style for $40 a day.

I'm still picking ticks off myself back in NYC, but I will say this: After the five-hour ride back to Paws Up (the horses were anxious to get home so they started trotting -- double ouch!), my first hour in a modern bathroom with a flush toilet and a hot shower was simply DIVINE.

Cathay Che is the MOLI View's contributing editor for Travel & Leisure. She posts every Tuesday and Thursday.