The Irish seem born with a love of music. At social gatherings, everyone's always ready to sing his or her "party piece." Performances are judged less by skill than by uninhibited sincerity or showmanship. Nearly every Irish household has some kind of musical instrument.

That love is especially strong for traditional Irish music. You can hear it at cultural heritage centers — keep your eyes and ears out for a ceilidh (KAY-lee), an evening of music and dance — and concert halls, but it sounds best in a pub. When I'm in Ireland, I walk around a pub-filled block like a guy choosing a dance partner, considering where I'll stop to enjoy a pint and a tune.

On the banks of the Rhine, the city that Gemans call "Köln" is home to Germany's greatest Gothic cathedral, its best collection of Roman artifacts, a world-class art museum, and a healthy dose of urban playfulness.

This river town in western Germany makes an ideal on-the-way stop — it's a major rail junction, and its top sights are clustered near the train station. With a couple of hours, you can toss your bag in a locker, take a quick town walk, zip through the cathedral, and make it back in time for your train.

Stepping out of the train station, you're confronted with a modern hodgepodge of post-WWII architecture and the towering icon of Cologne: its cathedral. The city feels rebuilt — because it was.

A reader once asked me: If I were to bring a spry, 73-year-old grandmother to Europe, where would I go? My response: France's Dordogne River Valley. I'd take her for a lazy canoe ride down the river, then cap the day with a great riverside meal — letting her enjoy goose liver (explaining what it was later) with the finest glass of French red wine she's ever had.

Whether young or old, visitors to the Dordogne are easily charmed by its unforgettable blend of village charm and scenic landscapes. Its highlights include villages seemingly carved out of the rock, prehistoric cave paintings, floats along the river, cute farmhouses perched amid fertile fields, and a local cuisine that brings together all that's best about French food.

For years I'd flown over Stockholm's famed archipelago, or glided by it on a big cruise ship heading for Helsinki. When I finally dived into the 80 miles of scenic islands that stretch out from downtown Stockholm, I wondered why I'd waited so long.

It's hard to put a number on just how extensive the archipelago is. Locals love to brag that it has 34,000 islands — but they must be counting mossy little rocks, so I don't use that figure. I can tell you that about a hundred of them are served by ferries, providing Stockholmers with the ideal island escape.

There's a spot in Paris that's an ideal place to share a box of macarons. Pulling the ribbon on a tiny box of them — gilded with tradition and the Parisian flair for good living — is the perfect start for a romantic afternoon with my favorite travel partner and my favorite city.

Nibbling our pastel confections — rose, lavender, peach, and pistachio — we dangle our legs over the tip of an island that splits the Seine River, which splits the city. Ahead of us a series of bridges gracefully arch over the river as it recedes into the distance.

Vernazza’s strollable breakwater creates a little harbor, rare on this rugged Italian Riviera coastline. Grabbing a comfortable hollow in a boulder on the tip, I study the arrangement man and nature have carved out here over the last thousand years. Crumpled hills come with topographical lines: a terraced, green bouquet of cactus, grapevines, and olive trees.

With a closer look, I notice that the hills silently simmer with activity. Locals tend their vines and hikers work up a thirst for the white wine these hills produce. It’s autumn and the grape pickers’ tiny train—the trenino—is busy ferrying grapes down into town from the highest terraces. This single silver rail line runs perpendicular to the terraces, scaling the hillside like a rock climber’s rope.

The villagers of the Swiss Alps have an endearingly intimate relationship with the nature that surrounds them, the history of their area, and the folk legends that make that history even more interesting. And, taking a hike there with a local comes with as many cultural insights as it does alpine views.

I’m spending my day walking with my schoolteacher friend, Olle, exploring the alpine landscape surrounding his home in Gimmelwald, above the Berner Oberland’s Lauterbrunnen Valley. Before we’re too far along, I realize I’m getting a blister.

Though many impressive walls have played an enormous role in Europe's past, today most are historical relics. From Hadrian’s Wall (constructed to defend the northern boundary of Roman Britannia) to the Maginot Line (built by the French in the 1930s to keep out the Germans), Europe's walls have generally been symbols not of strength, but of mistrust and insecurity. Most were necessary when built. But the promising news in our age has been a European society that is advancing toward mutual respect and cooperation—dismantling walls so that it can move forward.

Milan can’t compare with Rome and Florence artistically, but Italy’s second city hosts two noteworthy masterpieces: Michelangelo’s last pietà sculpture and Leonardo’s Last Supper.

On this visit to Milan’s Sforza Castle I get a rare opportunity to enjoy a Michelangelo statue with no crowds. Michelangelo died while still working on the Pietà Rondanini, his last pietà—a representation of a dead Christ with a sorrowful Virgin Mary. While unfinished, it’s a thought-provoking work by a nearly 90-year-old genius. The symbolism is of life and of death: Jesus returning to his mother, as two bodies seem to become one. Christ’s head is cut out of Mary’s right shoulder, and an earlier arm is still just hanging there. Above Mary’s right ear, you can see the remains of a previous face (eye, brow, and hairline).

Years ago, when I got my history degree, I said to myself, “I’d better get a business degree, too, so I have some useful knowledge.” But of course since then I’ve come to appreciate the value of historical insight. History is constantly speaking to us.

Whenever I visit the Reichstag building in Berlin, I’m reminded of my visit in 1999, when it had recently reopened to the public following a nearly decade-long reconstruction in the wake of German reunification. For tourists unaware of the building’s history, its restoration just meant another sight to check off their lists, its glass dome simply another vantage point to enjoy views of the city.