Helen Keller claims they’re one of the best therapy dogs.

Jon Stewart has two – and they watch over his young children.

But these aren’t the stories you hear when you hear about pit bulls.

“I think it all started back in 1987,” says Ken Foster, author of numerous books on dogs, “[when] Sports Illustrated ran a snarling photo [of a pit bull] with a caption ‘BEWARE OF THIS DOG.’”

If you believe rumors, pit bulls have brains that are too big for their heads and jaws that operate like sharks’. Only criminals and gangsters own them; and don’t even think about getting one — they’re known for turning on their masters.

I think Cesar Milan put it best: “In the ’70s, they blamed Dobermans, in the ’80s, they blamed German Shepherds, in the ’90s, they blamed Rottweilers. Now, they blame the Pit Bull.”

These misconceptions are what led Ken Foster to start the Sula Foundation, an organization that provides affordable vaccinations, free spaying and neutering, and basic education and obedience training for pit bulls.

Foster says he gets somewhere between 12-20 calls a day to come pick up a pit bull. “Every year in New Orleans, over 2,000 are euthanized,” he explains. “That’s a little more than five a day.”

I ask why the rate is so high, and the answer is complicated.

“People breed them poorly and don’t have the means to take care of them. People move and don’t want to take the dog with them,” he says. “Or, lately, a lot of people are into this ‘moving to New Orleans’ thing for a year to work on their art, adopting a pit bull, ‘cause that’s what everyone does here and then a year later are like, ‘I’m moving back home now, so can you take my dog?’”

Foster air-chokes that imaginary person and laughs a bit, but you can tell it’s an issue – one of many.

“In a place like New Orleans, stigma is a big thing,” he says. “People have preconceived notions of what someone, or something, is supposed to be like and they subsequently get judged based solely on that.”

And as I get viciously attacked by an army of wet kisses and a powerful violent tail, I kind of start to see where he’s coming from.

Big thanks to Salvador J. Stamatti Avila, who snapped this dizzying shot and submitted it to Nat Geo’s photo community!

Want to see one of your photos featured on our website or on the Intelligent Travel blog? Make it happen by uploading your favorite travel pics (don’t forget to add a caption!) to ngm.com/yourshot. Tag all your submissions #travelshot – then look for your photos in one of our My Shot galleries or on our blog.

#FriFotos is a weekly themed Twitter chat founded by @EpsteinTravels where travelers share their favorite pics. Search #FriFotos on Twitter to see the latest submissions or tweet one of your own.

This spring brings the War of 1812 bicentennial to life in a most audacious way: with the kind of sailing ships that made the war a test of nerves for a young, unproven navy and civilian privateers. One way to relive that chapter in history is to head for the water.

The Navy has collaborated with Operation Sail, the group that rounded up dozens of ghostly tall ships for the U.S. bicentennial in 1976, to arrange similar spectacles in U.S. cities this year. You’ll be able to experience the extravaganza in ports from New Orleans to Boston – including stops in Norfolk, VA and Baltimore, MD, and New London, CT. If you find yourself in New York City this Memorial Day weekend, you can catch sight of the ships during Fleet Week. Later in the summer, they’ll be making a tour of the Great Lakes.

A couple of years ago, I had the pleasure and privilege of boarding the Pride of Baltimore II, built to honor the city’s history of shipbuilding and privateering, to see what she was made of. “You’ve just stepped into the workings of a machine powered by wind and muscle,” Captain Jim Trost announced as we pulled away from the dock with six crew members hauling hard on a starboard line to spread the topsail.

For me, visiting those ships in Baltimore — passing Fort McHenry amid tankers, tugs, and weekend boaters – provided an eye-popping glimpse into life on the sea, then and now.

A print by T. Buttersworth depicts the 1815 battle between USS President and HMS Endymion. (Courtesy U.S. Navy Art Collection).

The captain reminded us that in 1812 Fells Point, the neighborhood stretching back from the dock, was rife with boat builders. Privately owned ships, commissioned by the U.S. Navy, frustrated the British in their blockade of the East Coast. Eventually a British fleet sailed up the Chesapeake Bay for retaliation and, when they arrived in Baltimore, found the harbor had been blocked by a false reef of wreckage. Amid the bombardment that ensued, a guy named Key jotted down some lines on an envelope that later became our national anthem.

Helmswoman Elizabeth Foretek told me about women who had served as sailors during the war, disguised as men, stories which we included in The War of 1812 and the Rise of the U.S. Navy. When their true identities were revealed, they were ushered off at the next port.

When the ship came about, she turned amazingly quickly (Baltimore clippers were built for more nimble maneuvering on the shallow bay). She felt alive. Later that afternoon, the Pride would challenge a British ship in a choreographed “attack.” And America’s maritime history, forgotten on most days, would come to life.

If you’re planning to travel to any of these once-in-a-lifetime events, there’s a free War of 1812 iPhone app that can help you identify important landmarks from that era along your path. On my route to Baltimore, for instance, it directed me to the White House (pointing out burn scars from the 1814 sacking of the capital), Bladensburg battlefield, and the house where Mary Pickersgil made the huge star-spangled banner.

It’s a useful bit of 21st century technology to take along for your trip to the 19th.

Follow David A. Taylor on Twitter @dataylor1.

I asked who this was and he began to tell me a story that’s too long to go into here. In short, when Kelly Mitchell, “Queen of the Gypsy Nation,” died in 1915 while giving birth, as many as 20,000 Romanis showed up for her funeral in Meridian, Mississippi, flooding the small town to pay their last respects.

My interest piqued, I drove to the Rose Hill Cemetery, where she is buried, and wondered how I was going to find her grave among the thousands there.

Turns out, it’d be pretty easy. The headstone festooned with beads and trinkets — the one with a faded photo of Kelly leaning against it, and strewn with loose change, flowers, a tube of mascara, pens, costume jewelry, and other offerings meant to entice the Queen to provide answers to their problems from beyond the grave — kind of stood out from the crowd.

Offerings left for the "Queen" (including my banana).

It’s an age-old stereotype that the Romani people have psychic powers (some say they invented Tarot cards), and many make their living in the fortune-telling trade.

I don’t care what you do or don’t believe – there’s no denying the energy in the air around her grave. It’s thick with mystery, time-travel, intrigue. I took a banana and a few coins out of my bag and laid them there with the rest of her gifts – paying homage to a person and a people many of us would like to think we understand… but secretly know we do not.

I left the cemetery to meet up with a friend who lives in Meridian, and after dispensing a hug and a hello, I just had to ask her about the grave – had she heard about it? Had she ever visited it? What did she know?

As it happens, she knew a few of Mitchell’s relatives who lived in town and asked if I’d like to meet them. The look on my face said enough.

A few minutes later, she came out with her phone. “Miss Mary will see you this evening.”

A few hours later, her phone rang. “Miss Mary just canceled,” she said, after hanging up.

This disappointed but didn’t surprise me. A nosy outsider — especially someone with a microphone, a pen and a camera — is probably not a big sell in a community that values its privacy.

“It’s probably just because of what they’ve been through,” my friend said. “The past few years in the city have been really rough.”

I asked her what she meant and she began to tell me how Meridian – a place, known as “The Queen City,” where tens of thousands of visitors come to pay tribute to Queen Kelly each year, has banned fortune-telling within city limits.

My friend went on to tell me that her niece, Jennifer Jacob Brown, had written a few stories on the controversial ordinance for the local paper, and offered to make an introduction.

“The city simply doesn’t allow them to open any business inside the city limits that they consider to be fortune telling, or spiritual advising – which is really hard to define,” Brown said.

In one of her articles, one of Kelly’s relatives, Sandy Mitchell, pointed out the absurdity of the ordinance, complaining that while Meridian is happy to use “the Queen’s” gravesite as a tourist attraction, they won’t let her descendants do business in the city. “If they’re going to outlaw fortune telling, I want them to outlaw horoscopes…fortune cookies…weatherman and stockbrokers,” he wrote, “because we’re all forecasting the future.”

I asked my friend to call Miss Mary and tell her I wanted to help get their story out.

Was I being honest? Yes, I was – I did want to help. A city that hangs banners that read “Welcome to the Queen City” downtown, but forces the people who made it that way to make their livelihood so far out they can’t see it rubbed me the wrong way. But I also simply wanted to meet these people.

After hearing more about my intentions, Miss Mary agreed to see me the next morning.

When I arrived, Lola, Mary’s daughter, answered the door, took my hand in both of hers and said, “Welcome” – her piercing green eyes counterbalancing a big white smile.

I looked around the room for any tell-tale signs of gypsy-dom. No men with tattoos, no women with big earrings, no crystal balls, no caravans waiting outside. It was a normal house with normal things inside it.

A few seconds later, Miss Mary came out to say “hello.” As we talked, she was quick to correct my pronunciation of “Roma” – a guttural sound to the “R” impossible to explain through words. She apologized for Sandy – her son – not being there; he was at church and wouldn’t be back until later.

Church? A house with walls?

The normality was palpable.

There was so much I wanted to ask them — about their people, their history, how fortune-telling “works” — but I realized that would have been overstepping. A few minutes later, a couple showed up to have their fortunes read, so I excused myself.

Miss Mary walked me to my car.

“Thank you,” she said. “I knew you were here to help.”

As I pulled away, she gave me a normal wave.

And walked back inside her normal house.

Many miles away from the Queen City’s center.

Follow the Good Traveler’s adventures on Twitter @GoodTraveler and on Instagram @GoodTraveler. 

A stew of dead jellyfish and buoyant trash swirls around the ship as its engines begin to churn. Topkapi Palace and the minarets of the Blue Mosque slip away, and the Ritz Carlton and the Istanbul Modern of the new city appear on the horizon. But as we head up the narrow link between the Black and Marmara seas, the packed-in feeling of one of the world’s mega-cities begins to fade into an older world built around trade and fishing.

The village of Anadolu Kavagi. (Photo by Katherine Gypson)

I get my first taste of this world when our ship stops at Kanlica. Portly men walk up and down the aisles with cardboard trays. I hand over two lire and receive a container of fresh yogurt and a packet of confectioner’s sugar in return. The tart flavor – tasting of fresh, strong milk – mixes well with the sweetness. It’s easy to see why yogurt is the village’s claim to fame.

The captain chugs along slowly, giving the passengers time to study our eventual destination – Anadolu Kavagi, a fishing village on the Asian side of the Bosphorus, at the mouth of the Black sea. Yellow and blue houses line the curve of the bay and creep up the steep hillside.

Centuries of temples, castles, and mosques have crowded the summit and then crumbled away. Only Yoros Castle– built by the Byzantines to protect this strategic position against invading Ottomans — remains.

As we dock, the deckhands warn us to be back on the ship at 3:00 p.m. because they won’t be waiting. Vendors call out, trying to convince us that their restaurant – every one of them open to the air, featuring a wide grill full of skewered fish – is the best. But, for me, castles are even better than food, so I join a small group heading up the hill.

The path is steep. Between shallow breaths, I laugh at the thought of trying to storm the castle. I’d read about the strategic value of this position – now my muscles understand it.

Yoros Castle, just north of Joshua's Hill in Istanbul. (Photo by Katherine Gypson)

Finally, the path flattens out to the wide grassy area of the summit. Much of Yoros Castle has fallen away but the two rounded towers remain. The multi-colored bricks seem to melt into the gray sky, and the sprawl of Istanbul, tucked in between hills, is just visible in the distance.

I look out across the Black Sea. The hill we’re on is the last bit of land before the expanse of water begins. Below, enormous freighters look small and lonely; their journey almost complete. Three Turkish navy ships cut silver lines in the water as they head into the blue beyond.

Centuries of defenders have looked out from this spot, waiting for battle. The Byzantines, the Ottomans, the Genoese. Raiding Cossacks from Russia had even made attempts on the castle.

We descend halfway down the hill to a restaurant built into steep tiers of earth. As I eat a shepherd’s salad of ripe tomatoes, parsley, and chunks of cucumber and onion dressed in olive oil, a cat curls around my ankle, asking for food. The restaurant competes for space with chicken coops, twisted old fruit trees and walls made of stone that matches the castle’s. A dog leaps onto the roof from a footpath, then paces, barking in protest over all the new people in his territory. A storm rolls in over the skyscrapers of Istanbul, miles away.

Looking back at the village from Yoros Castle. (Photo by Katherine Gypson)

Anadolu Kavagi is very clearly a tourist’s village, a place that comes alive and shows a different face when ships spill people out onto the streets. But it’s the kind of place that doesn’t bother to hide its other side.

I follow a downhill path through quiet neighborhoods and see lines of laundry fluttering in the breeze. Hand-made marionettes fill the dusty window of a house set back from the street.

A woman and her daughter sell hammered-metal earrings that have been painted in bright primary colors near the wooden pier leading back to the boat. I try asking about the earrings and how they are made but the mother speaks only Turkish. I buy three pairs and use what little Turkish I have to say ‘thank you.’

As the boat turns back towards Istanbul, I think about everything we’ve just passed and wonder what it must be like to be a local. To experience that brief respite before the next ship shows up at the dock.

This is why we work so hard all year — for the chance to relax, to recharge, and to reconnect with the people we love.

National Geographic Traveler‘s new issue is on the shelves, with a full feature on the best lake retreats around. “We are a different breed, those of us who choose fresh water,” writes Joyce Maynard in the article’s introduction. “Where ocean vistas speak of drama and turbulence, a lake — unless the Jet Skiers have got to it — is a tranquil place.”

What’s your favorite lake escape? Tell us in the comments section below for a chance to appear in the next issue of National Geographic Traveler magazine.

Otis Redding.

I’m praying she won’t recognize me — my hair was longer then; a few more grays in my beard. The whole “me camping outside their house thing“ happened years ago. Surely they’d forgotten, right? I couldn’t have been the only slightly deranged fan to show up on their doorstep.

As we sit down to talk, I’m afraid she’ll see the tattoo on my arm, do a double take at my face, and ask me to leave. But she doesn’t.

“Everyone knows ‘(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay,’ and that’s a sad song to them,” Karla says, speaking of her father’s only number-one hit — released posthumously after he died in a plane crash two weeks shy of Christmas in 1967. ”But that’s not who he was. He was ‘Shout Bamalama,’ he was ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,’ he was ‘Respect,’ he was ‘Hard to Handle.’”

“He seemed to know he wasn’t going to be around for long,” she says, sitting under a large poster of her father during one of his famously charismatic live performances, “so he packed as much into his life as he could.”

We talk more and more. I’m asking the best questions any writer has ever asked. She mentions their friend, Steve, and I know she’s talking about Steve Cropper, the guitarist in the house band at Stax, where Redding recorded most of his hits. She talks about how much more famous her dad is in Europe, and I’m able to recall the sound of the crowd from that album I have at home. She talks about his wanting to help local kids in Georgia with their education and I can sing the lesser-known “Stay In School” song he did to promote that.

Just then, Zelma, Otis’s widow, walks by and says “hello.” She extends her hand and I think I may have grabbed it too tightly. I wanted to say I’m sorry, but if I explained why, they’d have kicked me out.

Otis Redding. The man who helped break the color barrier at the Monterey Pop Festival back in ’67. The line up consisted of artists that appealed to a predominately white audience — The Who, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, The Mamas and the Papas. But when Otis took the stage, something magical happened. Even the ever-humble “Mr. Pitiful” had to admit what went on.

“You know, dad never thought he was that good” Karla says, still not noticing my tattoo. “But when he got home that night [after Monterey], he looked at mom and said ‘Zelma… I killed it. I really killed it.’”

He was more than all of that, though — more than music. He had two businesses, a family, a 300-acre ranch he called The Big O. He was a farmer, a dad who spoiled his kids, a husband who loved his wife.

It can be a hard one to hide -- especially in the southern heat.

He was also passionate about his community. Before his death, he had told his family that he wanted to start some sort of camp for young musicians. He would bring in agents, deejays, managers, A&R reps — the works — to show the kids that being a musician was about more than just singing. You had to learn how to be a star — and he wanted to show them how.

Zelma started The Big O Foundation almost immediately after her husband’s tragic and untimely death (he was only 26) — but in true Redding form, kept it out of the spotlight. Even now, the family shies away from saying too much about it — but Karla will admit to sponsoring scholarships and buying instruments for less-fortunate kids. ”We don’t do this for the papers,” she says. “We do this because daddy was passionate about it.”

We talk a few minutes more – I ask her her favorite song of Otis’ and she tells me it’s “Love Man.” “It’s just him, you know? ‘Six-feet-one, weigh two hundred and ten.’”

She asks me mine and I tell her it’s “For Your Precious Love.”

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I thanked her and walked out to the car. It’s a blistering day in Macon and I’m happy to be able to roll up my sleeves as far as they can go.

I couldn’t have done that before, you see, or Karla would have seen those three little words that have gotten me through many a day.

“Go ask Otis.”

Follow the Good Traveler’s adventures on Twitter @GoodTraveler and on Instagram @GoodTraveler. 

As it turns out, everyone is waiting to be seated by the owners, Marcia and Ronnie Thompson. But don’t get any ideas. Just because you show up with a group of people doesn’t mean you’ll be dining with them.

See, Mrs. Wilkes has a thing for bringing good folks together — even if they didn’t know each other when they walked through the door.

And that’s half the fun (just ask the people who got to sit next to President Obama last year.)

Take that Paula Deen.

Follow the Good Traveler’s adventures on Twitter @GoodTraveler and on Instagram @GoodTraveler. 

View of Old City from atop the Old City wall at Damascus Gate. (Photograph by Alexandra Avakian)

Photojournalist Alexandra Avakian has photographed for both National Geographic Magazine and National Geographic Traveler. Her coverage of Egypt appeared in the September 2011 issue of Traveler, and you can see the fruits of her labor in a story about Jerusalem in the May issue. Our photo editor Krista Rossow asked Alexandra what it was like going on assignment in a city with such a long and complicated history. This is what she had to say.

Krista Rossow: What’s your overall impression of Jerusalem?

Alexandra Avakian: I have been to Jerusalem countless times since 1988 and have even lived there part time, so I love being in the city and always will. This time was interesting because the story is a journey of memory by an Israeli-born journalist, so I got to delve into Jewish history and culture, as well as covering Muslim and Christian sites. My overall impression of Jerusalem is an infinitely layered one that lives within me and changes constantly — and my knowledge and appreciation for it deepens every time I go.

KR: Was it difficult to gain access to certain religious sites and neighborhoods?  Did you have to dress differently when you went out to shoot?

AA: Yes, it was more difficult this time than ever before, at two key places in particular.

At the Dome of the Rock in the Muslim Quarter of the Old City, I needed the permission of the Islamic authorities. I dressed as a Muslim woman, covering my body well and wearing a long lightweight cotton pastel scarf on my head. The Palestinians there said I was dressed in the style of a woman from Khalil and let me work for over an hour. I was very grateful because it is almost impossible to get permission these days, from either the Muslim, or Israeli authorities. This is the great holy hotspot on the planet: it is extremely sacred to all sides.

In Mea Shearim, an ultra Orthodox Jewish neighborhood, photography is harshly discouraged, so I really had to be careful and very politely persistent. I dressed extremely conservatively in a long, high-necked blouse with full-length buttoned down sleeves, a full-length black skirt with black stockings, and very sensible black shoes. But in the street I was hit on the back as I tried to take pictures in the main square, and had plastic bags put over my lens.

KR: What was the most interesting thing you learned about Jerusalem while shooting this assignment?

Jerusalem has become more religious than ever. Because I know this place well, I shouldn’t have been surprised in the least that even though I was clearly shooting a cultural, daily-life story meant for travelers, locals still wanted to talk about politics, first, foremost, and always. I recommend that any tourist who wants to truly understand Jerusalem, should besides visiting the holy sites, spend some time listening to all sides.

KR: Did you discover a favorite restaurant, hotel, museum, or site while photographing Jerusalem?

For the first time I was able to photograph the prayer space under the Rock at the Dome of the Rock. That was a special thrill for me.

Another special experience was catching a feast day at the exquisitely beautiful Church of St. James in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City.

KR: A picture that ran in the story was of a couple of young men from Brooklyn who were studying in Mea Shearim. Do you have a favorite image that didn’t make it in to the piece?

One of my favorite photographs is a portrait of Ethiopian monks on the rooftop of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

Another favorite image was taken at Latrun, an important Israeli historic site and war memorial outside Jerusalem, of a mother and child.

To see more of Alexandra Avakian’s photography, check out a gallery of images from her National Geographic book Windows of the Soul, a collection of images and text from her time covering the Muslim world during two decades, or visit her personal website.

“Hi, Aric – this is Paul, returning your call. Hope you’re not avoiding too many people. You might miss a few who are worth it. Call me back when you can.”

-

If all you knew of chef Paul Buck was that one voicemail, it’d be all you need. Funny, assertive, and willing to give everyone a chance… even if the rest of the world doesn’t.

And it’s that exact approach that led him (and a few others) to start the Starfish Café in Savannah, GA.

The Starfish Cafe: more than just a meal. A lot more.

“All we’re trying to do here is help people a bit down on their luck – homeless, recently out of prison, recovering from drugs, whatever” explains Buck, as he instructs a group of three on the proper way to achieve a reduction.

“These people have been pushed to one side, been given up on and [have] given up on themselves. We take them into the kitchen and in a 14 week process, prepare them the best we can for life inside a kitchen.”

But after seeing how he heads up his kitchen — and how his students respond — you can tell his philosophy is meant to extend beyond the culinary.

“You know, when they first come to us, they’re nervous” Buck says. “They’ve been told they’re not worth anything, and that leads to them getting into trouble, which leads to more self-doubt. What I’m trying to show them is that they can turn things around.”

You know how starfish can regenerate parts of themselves that have been lost? That’s the idea.

It’s not always a success story.

“We start with a group of about a dozen or so, and usually end up with six,” Buck says. “It’s not easy, this transition — nor do I make it easy in the kitchen.”

Buck provides a14-week culinary course for those a "bit down on their luck."

He smiles at that last part, as if giving away something he shouldn’t.

Is he a tough chef, educated in London, with more than 35 years of experience under his belt? Yes.

But if you’re ever in Savannah and stop by the café, you’ll hear his accent in the back, a constant source of encouragement and enthusiasm for his crew — people whom the rest of the world forgot.

I hope you’re not avoiding too many people. You might miss a few who are worth it.

Indeed.

Follow the Good Traveler’s adventures on Twitter @GoodTraveler and on Instagram @GoodTraveler.