santorini

The cruise brochure shows white-washed buildings of Santorini, capped in bright blue and overlooking the sapphire sea below.

The cruise brochure does not show the donkeys.

After spending our first full day on the cruise at sea, Joey and I were anxious to explore our first stop: Santorini.  But when we hopped off the ferry from the ship to the shore, over 600 donkey shit-covered steps stood between us and the picturesque town atop the hill.

There exists a cable car along the steep volcanic rock, but the line of would-be passengers wound around the port and under the powerful July sun.  We only had a few hours in port, so we opted to avoid the waiting and baking and brave the hike.  What we didn’t realize was that several hundred smelly-ass donkeys would be making the climb with us.

Each of the 600 steps involved avoiding the donkey shit, avoiding the donkeys producing said shit, and avoiding arriving at the top smelling like shit.  Massive.  Fail.

Herds of 10-20 donkeys ran in every direction up and down the steps, carrying powerless, flailing tourists or old Greek men with little whips.  While we sweated up the hill, the asses and the shit coming out of their asses monopolized the stairs and relegated us to hugging the wall in order to avoid being trampled.

By the time we arrived at the top, the bottom of my poor new sandals were caked in shit and hay.  Joey had sweat through his shirt and shorts and gone was my cute little side braid and attempt at make-up.  The amount of sweat streaming down my back, from under my boobs and in between my thighs was enough to cause some seriously uncomfortable chaffing.  

Hot.  Mess,

But we found the first bar, drank a cool, refreshing cocktail and made the most of our day.  We gorged on tasty gyros, shopped for cheesy curios and soaked in the incredible view.  We searched for the angle from which we could take the ubiquitous snapshot of Santorini’s blue domes, and Joey even scaled some of those white-washed walls with my camera to find the perfect shot (which then involved hiding from a Greek Orthodox priest and his congregation as they processed past my husband standing on some roof…).

The sun set on Santorini and it was time to catch our ride.  We went back down the way we came up, my anxiety of dodging donkeys and shit augmented by my lack of coordination and fear of tumbling down the hill.  At least the only hot part on the way down was the shower I savored as soon as we reached the boat.

Here's the link to the rest of my pictures from Santorini:  https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Santorini?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCIejjbeqiMrbPA&feat=directlink

 

an open letter to celebrity cruise line

Dear Celebrity,

My very first cruise was on Celebrity.  I was a senior in high school and my friend's mom organized Spring Break on the Celebrity Zenith.  We had a blast.  The cruise ship was beyond impressive, the food beyond delicious and the staff beyond friendly (even when I dropped my entire breakfast tray in the middle of the buffet line).  After my week on the Celebrity Zenith, I returned home with stunning photos, lifelong memories, and ten extra pounds.

Five years later, my husband-to-be and I planned our honeymoon: a Mediterranean cruise.  Finances and dates precluded Celebrity, so we settled for Princess.  It was a lovely cruise, but every time my husband pointed out something great, I replied, "It's nice, but it's not Celebrity."

We took two more cruises over the next few years; timing and cost relegated us to Royal Caribbean and Holland Cruise Lines.  Again my husband complemented our cruise experiences.  Again and again I echoed my refrain: "It's nice, but it's not Celebrity."

Finally this summer we had the opportunity to sail again with Celebrity.  We booked an 11-night cruise on a brand-new ship, the Equinox.  I so looked forward to showing my husband the amazing cruise line that, in my mind, reigned supreme.  And after six months of living in Abuja, neither one of us could wait to be pampered and stuff our face.

We boarded the massive, gorgeous new ship and a waiter handed us flutes of champagne.  Joey looked at me and said, "You win."  We dropped off our bags in our room, impressively ready immediately and gorgeous in its own right, then headed straight for the good stuff: the buffet.  Eyes wide and stomachs growling, we examined the multitude of options: Asian, Italian, Indian, Mexican, salads, meats, cheeses, grilled foods, desserts and more!  We proceeded to the poolside grill station and practically drooled over the burgers, brats, hot dogs, nacho cheese dip, hot wings, french fries, onion rings and acutrements galore.  I hadn't seen fresh, bright green jalapenos in six months and they tasted wonderfully crisp and spicy on my big, juicy burger.

With the giant, fluffy pink margarita I ordered from the poolside bar in hand, Joey and I explored the rest of the ship.  We loved the modern art and the bright, clean spaces.  There seemed more cool bars than days on the ship; but we were ready for the challenge.

Then the cracks appeared.  At dinnertime, we walked downstairs to the main dining room, seating assignment in hand.  A waiter greeted us as we entered, and led us to our table.  Except that table didn't exist.  The waiter kindly asked us to stay put while he figured out our seats, so while the other 1,500 people at the second seating brushed by, we stood in the middle of their way.  After about five minutes the maitre d' finally seated us at a table for five in the corner.

Joey and I always enjoy meeting the other people sailing with us, so we anxiously awaited our dining companions.  And waited.  And waited.  Finally, when it was clear we'd be dining on our own, our waiter finally took our order.  Our meal was delicious and once he finally took our order, our waiter was wonderful; however, throughout our meal several different waiters stopped by our table to pick items from the extra settings there.  First, a fork.  Next a knife.  Then a wine glass.   Obviously I don't need four forks, knives, wine glasses, etc., but it certainly kills the romance when every few minutes someone is stopping by to pilfer from your table.  From our vantage we saw many other tables experience problems of some sort.  Joey and I chalked it up to first night jitters.

The second night we were seated in the same table.  We waited for the other guests to join us again, although this time our waiter was immediately more attentive.  Our other guests never arrived, but our procession of visiting waiters did.  Apologetically, our waiter promised the next night to only set the table for two.

The third day our stateroom attendant delivered a new seating assignment to our room.  That evening the maitre d' escorted us to our new table: at the end of the main thoroughfare for the waiters and diners, and directly in front of the kitchen door.  Bright florescent lights glared from the corner as the door slammed open and shut and waiters shuffled in and out, with the clanging of trays and serving lids and silverware drowning out our attempt at conversation.  Our table was surrounded by so much commotion I opted to forgo dessert (yes, it was that bad), and before leaving the dining room, we requested a new spot from the maitre d'.  He apologized and told us that while the seating was full and we might have to wait a few minutes the next evening, he'd find us a new table.

On the fourth night the maitre d' found what he assured us would be a quieter spot.  He apparently didn't notice the table of ten children under the age of ten seated nearby, who screamed, yelled and threw food our entire meal.  When the neighboring table asked the waiter of the whereabouts of these childrens' parents, he replied, "the specialty restaurant."  The parents deposited their children in the main dining room and left them there, under the supervision of the waiter, and went two floors away to enjoy a quiet dinner.  Are you kidding me?  And Celebrity let this happen?

Joey approached the maitre d' again.  And then when I thought Joey was too soft on the guy, I charged into the conversation.  The maitre d' apologized profusely, explaining that nearly 1/3 of the 3,000 people on board were under the age of 18.  He also informed us that 900 guests were either Latin or South American, which he claimed to be highly unusual and that the cultural differences accounted for the parents' and their childrens' behavior.  (Um, okay?  1. We saw the same families throughout the cruise and every single one of those guests, even the kids, had frequent-cruiser cards, so apparently it wasn't unusual at all.  And 2. How does their ethnicity preclude Celebrity from enforcing a modicum of decorum in the main dining room?)  He assured us he'd find us a quiet table in the future.

The rest of our seating arrangements were amenable, although we were disappointed that we were unable to develop any sort of relationship with our waiters, their assistants, or the wine steward, since we bounced around the dining room for the remainder of the cruise.

Our frustration with the service on-board wasn't limited to the dining room.  After shelling out $200 for a massage and a facial, I spent half an hour of my treatment listening to the on-board announcements read in nine different languages.  My aesthetician merely shrugged and said safety regulations mandated that everyone be able to hear the announcements.  This seemed odd, because I could never hear them in the gym or our room.  One bartender had oppressive body odor and another spent half an hour lecturing Joey and me how Slobodan Milosevic was just "doing what he had to do."  Even our room steward seemed to put forward half-hearted service.

Needless to say, a fabulous new ship and haute food do not a perfect cruise make.  It's the people; the little details remembered by the staff that make the experience memorable.  I was so disappointed by Celebrity's dearth in service, it will be a long time before we consider your cruise line again. 

Here's a link to the pictures I took on the ship: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Cruise?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCJfB1JevhZDvcA&feat=directlink

portofino

Sunday was another early morning, as Joey and I squeezed in a short run before attending mass at the church where we got married.  The same priest with the giant ring of jangling keys who performed our rehearsal said mass. While we didn't understand him any more than the first time around, his passion and hand gestures transcended the language barrier.  After mass we enjoyed a capuccino before hopping on a boat to nearby, glitzy Portofino.

In Portofino we lunched at a boardwalk cafe while Joey gawked at the mega-yachts and I coveted every handbag that past.  We walked the manicured streets and peeked into ancient St. Martin's church before ascending to St. George's church on the hill.  After fighting a losing battle with the wind and my dress (yes, Mom, I was wearing underwear, but with not nearly the coverage I needed when my dress flew up and my husband chose to take pictures instead of help), we explored the nearby cemetery.  Still worn out after the Cinque Terre, Joey and I took the ferry back to Santa Margherita and spent our last evening there progressing through several cafes for several courses and several glasses of wine. 

Accidental flasher

Monday morning was our earliest yet; we had to fit in our long run before the 8 am train to Rome.  So at 5:45 we hit the pavement, and ran along the winding road to Portofino.  We had the whole of the Ligurian coast to ourselves; not even the fisherman were awake yet.  The rising sun shimmered over the cerulean sea; the waves crashed into the rocky coast while we ran in the crisp morning air.  It truly was the most amazing run of my entire life.

A few hours and two train rides later, we arrived in the port of Rome, Civitavecchia, for the next leg of our journey: time for the floating buffet!

Here's the link to all my picutres from our time on the Ligurian Coast: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/SantaMargheritaLigure?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCLqd-cmkhsmbgQE&feat=directlink

the cinque terre

Saturday morning Joey and I woke up early.  We'd planned to hike the Cinque Terre; therefore, the broken strap on my walking shoes could be ignored no more.  Good thing Santa Margherita has such cheap shopping!  For yacht owners...

Luckily we managed to find a cute pair of flat sandals with black and brown straps that seemed comfortable enough and didn't break the bank.  Unluckily, I chose not to follow my sisters', parents', or best friend's advice to skip the fashion for the Cinque Terre and just wear tennies.  Even more unfortunate for Joey was my decision not to share this piece of advice with him.  So a flip-flop clad Joey and I, in my cute new shoes, boarded the hour-long train to Vernazza.  Good thing I always carry band-aids in my purse.

Despite the bazillion other tourists who descended upon those same five remote towns that day (seriously, Europe in the fall), the bright colors and stunning views of each tiny village and its surroundings seemed to become more vibrant and more incredible as the day progressed.  I could not believe how blue the water was. 

Halfway between Vernazza and Corniglia.  That's Corniglia in the distance.

The first hour of the steep climb up the mountain between Vernazza and Corniglia was the easy part.  Try going down the other side of that mountain in inappropriate footwear when you are already spatially challenged and uncoordinated.  Even Joey, who is pretty hard to fluster, was mortified at my method of balance as I spread out my arms and hands and plopped one entire leg at a time down each step of the mountain.  I really tried to go down the steps like a normal person, but grace isn't one of my strong suits.

Although we'd scaled a small mountain in flip flops and 90 degree heat while dodging other sweaty people on narrow stairs that should not be shared, the scenery was well worth the effort.  We ambled through the second (technically third, but we skipped Monterosso) town, Corniglia, before we faced "more stairs than line the side of a Mayan pyramid," according to my guidebook, down which I would have to "flop," according to my husband, to reach the next town.  Off I flopped, and we were on our way to Manarola.

The trail to Manarola from Corniglia continues behind the Cornigilia train station, where we found several signs that the trail was closed.  Of course this all didn't register until after we watched the only train for the next half an hour leave, so faced with climbing back up the Mayan pyramid or a bench at the train station, we sat.  I'm not going to lie: I was considerably, disgustingly, sweaty; probably just as smelly (I wasn't about to put my nose in my armpit to find out); my feet were blistered; my shoulders sunburned and my stomach growling (I'd read in my guidebook to find a cafe in the next town so we'd only grazed through the morning - ha, oops).  So as much as I'd originally wanted to hike all the way from Vernazza to Riomaggiore, I wasn't devastated that we had to cheat a little. 

While we sat and waited for our train, the number of would-be hikers increased, and another girl, maybe about 14 years-old, sat next to me on the bench.  Joey and I continued our conversation, and as it reached a lull, the girl looked over at me and said, "I'm from Norway." 

That's all.  Completely matter-of-fact and even more out of the blue. 

Not much for small talk with people I do know, I replied with the nicest thing I could think of: "Okay?" 

And that was the extent of our conversation. 

Joey gave me the "Do you know her" look, to which I replied with the "WTF" look, after which we stifled our snickering until the train came.

Outside Manarola

In Manarola we stopped for gelato.  I ordered a large cone of my favorite: Amarena.  The gorgeous Italian woman behind the counter blessed with long legs and the ability to eat pasta all day every day in her Gucci size 2 pants replied, "you know that's three scoops, right?"

Are you saying something?  Because I just hiked a mountain and I live in Africa.

We drifted from Manarola along the "Via dell'Amore" to the last town, Riomaggiore, where we saw a bride posing for pictures with a huge bouquet of lavender.  Then we took the last train back to Santa Margherita, for naps, showers, and another romantic evening along the Ligurian Sea.

santa margherita ligure

I'd been nervous to return to Santa Margherita Ligure.  I worried that somehow the anticipation and exhilaration that only a bride can feel had softened the edges of my already wonderful memories of the town where Joey and I were married.  My fears that I'd remembered Santa Margherita as fondly and without fault as a mother sees her child, however, were allayed the moment we exited the train station.  Santa Margherita Ligure, with its bright blue skies and puffy white clouds, pastel-colored houses nestled in the rolling green hills, and tall palm trees lined against the azure Ligurian Sea, remained just as breathtaking as it had been on our wedding day.

After much-needed naps and showers, Joey and I strolled hand-in-hand along the shops and cafes lining the waterfront.  We watched the sun set as we dined on Ligurian pesto and gnocchi and carbonara and fresh fish.  Then we climbed the thousand stairs back up to our church.  I can't explain the calm that I felt as Joey held me on the stoop of the church; we sat together in silence for a long time and just watched the moon. 

This posting has been very, very trying for me.  Living in Abuja, compounded by all of the stress from three moves in 6 months, leaving my entire family and everything I had ever known, and moving to Africa, challenged me more than I ever expected.  And when your one constant, the only person with you through it all, also happens to be the only person with you through it all, that person gets to see the good, the bad, and the ugly.  And I can get really.  Really.  Ugly.  So I'm not the only one who suffered during the first six months of our tour.  Joey suffered too.  And so did our marriage. 

I suppose I wasn't afraid as much that Santa Margherita had lost her charm;  I suspect, deep down, I worried that Santa Margherita wouldn't heal the wounds inflicted from this posting, and that we'd leave as bitter as we'd arrived.  I knew that it wasn't Joey's fault that we got posted where we did; I'd had an equal say in his bid list.  But just because your mind knows something doesn't mean your heart will believe it.

But I do believe in true love, and I believe even more that I married my soul-mate.  And maybe it was Santa Margherita or maybe it was our church.  Maybe it was the sea or maybe it was the full moon.  Maybe it was our lovely, old memories or maybe it was the new ones we created this time around.  Nevertheless, three days later when we boarded our train to Rome, Joey and I knew we were going to be okay.

I think it was love.

lessons learned

Travel lessons I should have learned the first time we schlepped around Italy:

1. Train rides suck.  They make me feel like I drank all the vodka in Russia the night before, whether or not I consumed a drop of alcohol.  They are crowded, generally stinky (although after 6 months here, my tolerance for BO is now as high as a Russian's tolerance for vodka), and just altogether unpleasant.  Whose brilliant idea was it to plan a 9-hour train ride from Provence to Santa Margherita? 

2. Europe is not handicap-friendly.  And big, heavy suitcases are big-ass handicaps.  The same brilliant person who planned the 9-hour train ride thought it would be much easier to just lug one bigger suitcase (each) instead of having to juggle two smaller suitcases (each).  Maybe, until the 9-hour train ride included 4 stops, which meant five separate times Joey had to heave my 60-lb suitcase and his 60-lb suitcase down the staircase to the train platform, up into the train, down out of the train and back down one staircase and up another staircase to the next platform.  In 90-degree heat.  Oops.

Yeah, just because Aix-en-Provence is close to the French Riviera, and Santa Margherita is on the Italian Riviera does not mean you should take a train between them.  Maybe if you take a day in Nice.  Or maybe if a direct train overnight existed (it doesn't), it might be a tolerable trip.  But definitely don't do it the way we did.  By the time we left Aix-en-Provence and stopped in Nice, Ventimiglia and Genoa before arriving in Santa Margherita, we were completely and utterly exhausted.  And I didn't even carry the suitcases.  Which brings me to #3:

Pick one destination and stay there.  Going from A to B to C to D to E is expensive, it's exhausting, and by the end of the trip, it's just plain annoying.  Packing and unpacking and repacking your suitcase gets progressively harder, especially if you buy any sort of souvenir.  Particularly if you've been in Nigeria for six months and are struck, first numbly, and then overwhelmingly, by your innate, American consumerism that sat dormant during the last several months.  Trust me.  Go somewhere you can explore for a few days and from where you can easily explore a few other destinations for a few days.   A to B to A to C is infinitely easier.

Oh, and wearing high heels because your travel shoes are broken and you'll have slightly more room in your suitcase is beyond inane.  Who would be dumb enough to do that? 

provence day 5: avignon

Papal Palace in the background

Thursday was our last day with Sujata, and we spent it in Avignon.  Every year, thousands of thespians descend on Avignon for its annual theater festival, with which our visit just happened to coincide.  Oh. Yay.  It was packed and the street performers weren't shy.  But I'd still return to Avignon, with its thick medieval ramparts, imposing papal palace, and shady plane trees, just not in the middle of July.

Really?

We spent the day the same as we'd spent the others.  Eating.  Drinking.  Shopping.  Wandering.  Joey and Sujata bemoaning my excessive photography habit.  By the end of the day when we deposited Sujata at the train station, we were sad to see her go, but I'm pretty sure she'd had enough of Joey's driving and my camera.  She'd made a great traveling companion over the last ten days, and hopefully she'll be willing to brave us again for another fun vacation.

Although it was Bastille Day, Joey and I were both tired and crabby, so we crashed back at the cottage.  The next morning we were up early to check-out; a simple process made infinitely more difficult by the language barrier and Vauvenargues' lack of ATM.  But everything worked itself out, we dropped off the rental car and boarded the first of many trains for the long trip to Santa Margherita Ligure. 
 

For all of my pictures from Provence, click here: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Provence?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCOODs5Kqwdzb6AE&feat=directlink

(Don't worry, I narrowed them down after we returned to Abuja).  

Here's the link for my Paris pictures too: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Paris?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCKC0h_HKh6CLFg&feat=directlink