T A B L E_T A L K Is it hubris to go where the tourists don't? Discuss travels off the beaten path in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk ___________________ Check out barnesannoble.com's fabulous selection of travel book bargains! ___________________ R E C E N T L Y This week in travel Wanderlust's selective guide to travel-related news from across the globe (01/22/99) Can this planet be saved? By Don George Mark Hertsgaard discusses his new book about the human toll of global environmental devastation (01/21/99) "Earth Odyssey" By Mark Hertsgaard Excerpt: A visit to Bangkok reveals the economic temptations and environmental troubles of the Technological Age (01/21/99) Sex and fate in Macau By Rolf Potts Inspired by a sidewalk fortuneteller, a traveler tries his luck at an erotic cabaret in this soon-to-be-transferred Portuguese colony (01/20/99) Teaching the cannibals to dance: Part Two By Craig Nelson A mock battle culminates in a transcultural two-step -- and an unexpected gift (01/19/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		----------A passion for Pelago Every year an unlikely Italian village is transformed into a three-day Rainbow Gathering meets Burning Man meets rave music festival. BY TANYA SHAFFER | By the time I hit Italy, I was completely museumed out. After a month of soul-searching, mind-enriching solo travel, I was lost in a heady maze of personal and European past. I craved an experience that would get me out of my tormented, overly analytical head and into my underutilized body. During a three-hour stopover in Pisa, I sat on a hard wooden pew in the imposing cathedral and prayed for something to jolt me completely into the realm of the senses. Be careful what you wish for: Three days later, I found Pelago. It began with Fiorenza and Renato, my Servas hosts in Poggibonsi, a Tuscan village near San Gimignano. Servas is an organization that connects hosts and travelers around the world who share an interest in peace and social justice. Normally you spend at least two nights with your hosts, but Fiorenza and Renato told me they could only house me overnight, since they were leaving the next day for a vacation on the beaches of Croatia. They promised to introduce me to friends who could put me up if I wanted to spend more time in Tuscany's steamy splendor. They were a wonderful couple -- Renato was the polar opposite of the macho Italian stereotype, gentle and soft-spoken, almost shy, with a long blond ponytail and slender, delicate hands stained purple from his work at the winery. Fiorenza was a buzz-haired, bespectacled fireball, whose twinkling eyes and cheerful muscularity made me suspect that if I could just introduce her to some women friends of mine in San Francisco, her life would never be the same. After a meal of Renato's hand-cut pasta, accompanied by mellow, full-bodied red wine, they asked me if I wanted to come with them to a rehearsal of Bandao -- their Brazilian drumming group. Bandao was a group of about 25 Italians of all ages who shared a passionate enthusiasm for Brazilian rhythms. They met in a sweltering Poggibonsi basement twice a week to practice their instruments under the tutelage of a curly haired Adonis who conducted their playing with the sweating, wild-eyed fervor of a hellfire preacher. A few prize pupils set the rhythm with large bass drums, while the rest banged away on metal noisemakers of all sizes. When we arrived I was handed a maraca made of two tin cans welded together and filled with beans. "All the new members start with this instrument," Fiorenza explained. They were practicing for a big festival two days later in Pelago, and the atmosphere was intense with concentration. The Adonis eyed me distrustfully as I tried to follow the rhythm with my maraca. He was clearly concerned to have a newcomer enter the group at such a critical moment. I started to move to the sidelines, but Fiorenza stopped me. "No, no, no, you are welcome!" she crowed when I indicated that perhaps it would be better for me to watch. "Here, Basilio will show you what to do. Follow him!" Basilio, a slouching, sleepy-eyed blond with a hangdog look and a torn black T-shirt, flashed me a lazy grin. He smelled strongly of sweat, beer and cigarettes. "Zero stress," he said to me in heavily accented English, once he understood my predicament. "You watch me. Stress: niente." There was no resisting the rhythm. Once those 25 drums, pots and shakers got going in the close air of that tiny cement basement, there was no room for anything else -- not sound, not breath, not even thought. I closed my eyes and my whole body became one pounding, clanging Italian-Brazilian heartbeat. At last the thinker was gone, if only for a moment. Blessed, blissful absorption. N E X T+P A G E | Three days party! - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTO COURTESY OF TANYA SHAFFER