Iris Apfel

Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel

DOLPHINS SWAM BESIDE US and jumped out of the water as if to greet us, as my father and I sailed up the Bosphorus and into Istanbul for the first time. It was dawn. The sky was azure and clear; there was not a television antenna in sight. When I returned just a few years later with Carl, it was another story—the pollution was terrible and the sky was filled with wires.

In Paris in 1952, if you weren’t seated for dinner by seven thirty, you didn’t eat. Now if you come in before nine o’ clock, everyone looks at you like you have two heads. It’s my conviction that dining later and later is a sign of a degenerating society.

Traveling makes life rich. And I like a good adventure. I’ve never gone anyplace where I wasn’t working; actually, I don’t like to go to a resort and just sit there. I never have. I don’t know what I would do with myself. Carl and I traveled all the time for our business. We went all over Europe, to Paris and London numerous times, and I think we covered every square inch of Italy. We made many acquaintances through work, so we learned about great markets and who had the best of everything. We discovered things by just walking everywhere. Wandering down little streets, you stumble into things, whether it’s a tiny shop that carries incredible buttons of all colors and shapes or a local lacemaker. That’s how I became familiar with these cities and where to shop, and that’s how I decorated my home and built my collections.

Amo l’Italia! And if you’ve never been, I’d say see as much of Italy as possible. That Rome is still standing is extraordinary. I love that there are piazzas everywhere you turn; that you can come around a corner and find yourself in front of the Pantheon; and that there are still grand palaces like the Doria Pamphilj, with its courtyard and orange trees, sitting just off the Via del Corso. I’ll never forget the trulli—circular drystone buildings in ancient Apulia; there are no other buildings like that anywhere in the world.

Venice is like being in a strange, decadent dream—the Moorish architecture; the striped pilons with their peeling paint, which the gondolas are tied to; the water slapping against the buildings; the tiny alleys that always feel a bit wet. I like that little hint of exotic—it stirs my bones.

That’s why I loved Istanbul, too, with its bazaars of all kinds and old-world culture: it’s beautiful, sophisticated, and gritty. Once we ended up in Bursa, home of the Turkish towel, on a Sunday and there was nothing to do, so we decided to go to one of the baths. I was a bit obsessed with the gold-colored tin they give you for your soap and wash cloth, so I bought one—and still carry it as a handbag today. And I’ll never forget the sight of all the ladies sitting around the edge of the pools—without a stitch on and crocheting baskets.

Tunisia is special. In the markets there, you buy silver jewelry by weight; artisanship and beauty have nothing to do with the price, which always amused me. I loved Sidi Bou Said, a tiny town on a steep cliff, just outside of Tunis. It’s like an itty-bitty version of Capri. All the houses are white with azure doors and trimming, and there are cobblestone streets, and lots of flowers everywhere. On one visit, the mayor’s daughter was getting married in the town square late one night, and we were lucky enough to be invited to the wedding. It seemed like the whole village was there, crowded into the plaza or watching from above, leaning out from their balconies. The whole affair lasted until dawn. They sure knew how to throw a party.

We walked into a lot of experiences like that. In Morocco, we were driving around and stopped to admire a white horse adorned in silver as part of a rural wedding procession. We couldn’t speak a word of Arabic, but the people were so friendly. They invited us to the wedding party—and we went.

Something similar happened when we were driving in Crete. We noticed a large number of cloths spread out along an embankment with grapes drying on them—we got out to look. The people drying the fruit had been watching us. They tried communicating, and the next thing we knew, they were pulling us up the embankment for an outdoor lunch under the Cypress trees.

In 1958, we were touring around the Irish countryside and came upon a cluster of houses with the most charming thatched roofs. I was dying to photograph one of them, but Carl thought it would be rude to do that without asking the owners. So we chose the house with the fattest roof and rang the bell. Out came two elderly gentlemen who readily gave us permission. It was tea time, and the kettle in the antique walk-in fireplace was bubbling. They insisted we stay for a cup. They were delightful.

In Lebanon, we would go to the Baalbeck International Festival, the oldest cultural event in the Middle East, every year. There was this man who’d come every year too, to sell coffee. And it was the worst coffee you can imagine. But he had this gorgeous brass table on which he’d set four smashing brass urns in graduated sizes for the coffee. As the coffee brewed down to the perfect muck, he’d dump the dregs of one urn into another. This went on until there was one urn left filled with coffee that just kept getting stronger and more horrible as it emptied out. But everyone would drink it, and we drank it too, mostly to continue our annual conversation with the proprietor about buying his brass table and urns. And one year, we prevailed—I always wondered whether he was ready to retire or whether we had put him out of business.

Beirut had an incredible casino and a wonderful gold market. In the 1970s, we became friendly with this funny little Russian man at one of the markets. Every time we visited, he’d invite us into his office, where he had all this gorgeous Chinese jewelry that he had brought back from his travels. He loved to drink, and the more he imbibed, the cheaper his wares became. It was ridiculous. Beirut was beautiful, though; it really was the Paris of the Middle East.

Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel

Speaking of Paris, who doesn’t love PARIS?

Photo Credit: Eric Giriat

Everyone should go to Paris.

Photo Credit: Courtesy of Iris Apfel

BARCELONA, by the way, is not to be missed for the tapas, tapas, tapas, and vino.

I love the little winding streets filled with shops, all the incredible greenery, and the silver jewelry. And of course, for the work of the architect Antoni Gaudí, a fellow lover of color and the unusual.

And then there’s Hong Kong, with its supercharged energy, expats from around the world, and new buildings that scrape the sky. The overlay of Western ideas on old Chinese culture is inescapable—you feel it everywhere.

I’ll never forget London, though. I love the old traditions of London Town. And every day there is another market to go to somewhere. The shops, the museums, the parks, the flowers—they never fail to knock me out. Next to New York, it is the most multilevel city going.

Rio was a study in contrasts. Looking down from the terrace of the luxurious, thirty-odd-room villa where we stayed to the unbelievably abject poverty of the favela below was an emotional experience I could have lived without.

I found Mexico City to be super sophisticated. There, I was particularly enchanted with the architecture, not only the sleek twenty-first-century skyscrapers, but also the townhouses built in the style of Louis XV and Louis XVI during the era of Emperor Maximilian and set on streets that remind me of Paris’s loveliest. I went bananas over the homestead of Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera. Their palette was staggering. Brilliant, bold, saturated colors were everywhere.