Death by Donkey

We're at sea today, but yesterday we were in the Greek island of Santorini. The island is basically a big old mountain, and the towns are built at the very tippy-top.


And of course the boat leaves you at the very bitty-bottom. So how to get up there, you ask? You could ride up on the cable car. And you could walk it (I don't recommend it, for reasons to follow).

Or you could ride up on a donkey. Doesn't that sound like fun? Who doesn't love a donkey? Nobody, that's who, because everybody loves donkeys.

I love a donkey too, so naturally I chose the donkey. So I got up to the donkey-giving guy, paid, and then suddenly I was hoisted in the air and tossed onto a donkey. "You go!" the man yelled, and the donkey, well, he went.

And that's when it became clear that I'd been given the demon donkey. My brother went cantering by, waving cheerily and hooting, "Look how well he obeys me!" My sister-in-law wielded her camera in one hand and her bag in the other, snapping pictures as she glided up the mountain.

Me? I held on for dear life, screaming, "I don't wanna diiiiiiiie!"

On the donkey path
My donkey didn't care. He went where he wanted to go. He galloped at breakneck speed. He crashed repeatedly into the cliff face, crushing my leg in the process. He rammed other donkeys, and then tried to bulldoze them to the side (leaving my poor defenseless legs right in the line of fire of the other donkeys' hindquarters).

He had a particular yen for the other hapless tourists making their way down the mountain. He headed right for them at top speed. Oh, the poor souls, how they tried to avoid him, stepping this way and that, but my donkey was far more nimble than they. He'd draw nearer, hot breath like the flames of hell washing over them, and they'd press themselves desperately against the cliff wall. Their eyes would grow wide with horror.

And the screams, oh God the screams, they haunt me when I try to sleep. "Nein! Bitte nein!" or "Non! Mon Dieu, non!" or any of a handful of other languages that I do not speak, but the meaning was clear enough: terrified denial at that which could not be avoided.

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Somehow, miraculously, I survived and so did the tourists. The cruelest thing would have to be the way that, with (what felt like) miles to go to the top, the donkeys stopped, and the donkey-handling dude came up behind me, grabbed me, and yanked me unceremoniously off the donkey. "Done!" he yelled. "You go now!"

Sheesh, I went. And just about died climbing up the rest of the mountain. I have grave, grave concerns regarding my ability to climb Mount Vesuvius tomorrow. If I do not return...remember me.

Opa!

After a day at sea on Saturday, we spent today in Athens.

We had a crazy Greek tour guide who was straight out of My Big Fat Greek Wedding -- or maybe she herself had seen that movie too many times. She was very much, "If you can speak English, you can speak Greek, because all English words come from Greek words!" And then she'd list all the words she could think of with Greek roots.

We started out at the Acropolis, which was every bit as fantastic as I'd imagined. I couldn't actually believe that I was there. I still don't, even as I look through the pictures to decide which one to post.

My brother (with the baby on his back) at the Acropolis
It's also a bit of a treacherous climb...the kind of climb you'd never see in lawsuit-happy-and-thank-God-for-my-sake-it's-so America. Lots of marble slabs that have been polished shiny-slick by millions of feet passing over them.

Then we drove for a couple of hours along the coast to Cape Sounion. Lovely sights. I was amazed once again at the European parameters for luxury. As in, the high-rent, beach-front district boasts dreary little condos with cheap plastic chairs on tiny, dingy balconies crowded by drying laundry. And those people have more money than I could ever dream of. I think they should all move to my town and buy villas with their millions. And bring their food with them. More saganaki, please!

My niece's first time on the beach, at the feet of the Temple of Poseidon in Sounion


In Cape Sounion we saw the Temple of Poseidon, which isn't as grand as the Parthenon but felt somehow more majestic. I think the difference is that the Acropolis is swarming with tourists and guards and scaffolding for renovation, whereas we were the only tour group at the Temple of Poseidon. It stands silently atop a rocky bluff overlooking the sea. I really felt a sense of reverence...I could imagine Ancient Greeks walking the same paths I did in a way it was hard to at the Acropolis.

(Um, and I could imagine Lord Byron there too. The Greeks love him, I guess. He carved his name into a column in the temple. That's supposed to be really cool now, but I say it's just graffiti. He's a goober.)

Absinthe Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

View of Dubrovnik (and my niece) from the ship
We spent the day in Dubrovnik, Croatia. I didn't know what to expect. It's a popular beach resort, so I guess I pictured something like the Caribbean.

The reality is somewhat different...lots of rocky mountains with quaint little red-and-white homes built all the way to the top. The sea is gorgeous, glittering turquoise.

We walked around the old town for a bit. Then my brother said, "Hey! Let's climb the old city wall!" Then my sister-in-law said, "Yeah, let's!" I declined, but then I figured that climbing up those steep, narrow stairs would be a great workout.

So we climb up this looooong staircase and look around and take some pictures. I say, "That was nice!" and head for the staircase again. Oh no, I am informed. What we must do is walk all the way around the city wall (as in, all the way around the old city) and climb all the way to the very tip-top turret.

Five hours and 8,302 stairs later....


I say that counts as today's workout. Anyone got a problem with that?

I wish I could post a picture, but for some reason that's not working. I'll give it one last try today, and if it doesn't work I'll give it up until I'm back. Not that anyone is just dying to see my vacation pictures....

'Tis a Gift To Be Simple

Not having luggage is fantastic! Simplicity is bliss. I'm enjoying this streamlined, essentials-only lifestyle so much, I think I'll embrace it even after my trip! I shall be a Quaker and wear a cool hat and maybe people will call me Goody, and who wouldn't enjoy that?

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Yeah. I didn't buy it either. But I really almost had myself convinced – this morning, I decided it was great that it only took me 10 minutes to get ready. Unless you factor in the time necessary for "blow drying of the unmentionables that were hand washed in the sink last night hey that counts as clean." Which it turns out is about an hour, and even then said unmentionables are still damp and not so fun.

We headed out into Venice, which was very nice. We spent a very relaxing morning wandering around St. Mark's – didn't go in because the line was very long. Plus I'm still miffed at them for denying me entrance in 1993 because of my whore dress that totally wasn't whorish at all, unless you consider a scoop neck and cap sleeves whorish. (I got them by sneaking in the back entrance! Haha! Take that, Baby Jesus! Me and my whore dress shall prevail!) They now have a guard posted at the back entrance, so no go there.

Much of the morning was spent in pursuit of luggage replacements, diapers foremost among them. We tried to tell the baby she had to be a big girl now, but she wasn't buying it. We did finally find her some giant Italian diapers – her size, but it's like they go up to her shoulders – when she was wearing her last one.

My brother and sister-in-law bought shoes, and my parents bought t-shirts. I bought something too: a little bottle of absinthe! Very vital in the luggage-replacement department.

My sister-in-law in Venice
Back again to find still no luggage, but the word was that 75 pieces were coming from the airport – but that passengers were missing over 1,000. I was not optimistic, especially as the afternoon wore on and the time for the luggage to come came and went and still no bags. No bags!

Finally, the ship pulled away from Venice. Such a pretty sight. Look, there goes the harbor, fading into the distance. Look, there goes our luggage.

View of Venice from the ship
I went back to my room feeling dejected but keeping a little spark of hope alive that I'd see my bags standing in the hall by my door (which is where they leave them). I peeked around the corner...and no bags.

Aw. Opened up the door...and there were my bags! Both of them! Everyone else got their luggage too. We're all reveling in the amazing novelty of clothes, wonderful clothes!

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Just a quick note to let you know that I have extremely limited Internet access. I only have time to pop online to publish a prewritten post and sneak a peek at recent comments, but not to respond to e-mail or do any other surfing. The withdrawal pangs are hard, but oh well, I figure good ol' absinthe will soften the blow.

Babies on a Plane

Well, I'm still alive, but I think we're all a little worse for wear at this point. The airline industry really managed to screw us over – but what else is new?

No sleep Monday night...I got out of the shower to discover that I couldn't read (or rather, all the letters on the page kind of ran together so I couldn't make them out). Which of course meant I was about a half hour away from a major migraine. I took a happy pill and hopped into bed, hoping I could sleep, but no such luck. Ouch.

We started out on Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn. Upon arrival at the airport, we discovered, yay, our flight had been canceled! US Airways claimed "mechanical problems"; I call "the plane wasn't full enough for them." The next flight to Philadelphia would still have been okay, but it was badly delayed. Plus, apparently it was raining in Philadelphia or something? If you live in Philadelphia, I say you live in a bad bad city.

So, we got diverted to Harrisburg. I don't know where that is, but I can tell you where it's not...in Philadelphia, where my flight to Venice was taking off at 5:50. We landed in Harrisburg at about 5 to refuel. After lots of fiddling around, we finally took off again for Philadelphia at about 6 (did I mention the flight to Venice took off at 5:50? and that there's only one flight to Venice each day? And if we missed this one flight we'd miss our cruise?). Then we circled and circled and circled Philadelphia. Finally got on the ground at 7.

Allow me a digression to say that, well, US Airways sucks. It sucks a lot. Its personnel are rude and grumpy, and they take out their problems on their passengers. (Yes, Ms. Flight Attendant, we understand that you weren't supposed to be working that day. We get it. That sucks. Meanwhile, could you try not biting off the passengers' heads? Maybe?) The worst part was that we were concerned about missing our flight to Venice, but they were uniformly unhelpful...they claimed they couldn't find out information about the flight, but I don't buy it – I've been on tons of other flights that were running late, and they made announcements about people's connections. They did say there would be a liaison waiting when we left the plane to direct us and to provide us with a cart to drive us over to the gate.

There was no one waiting, and there was no cart. There also was no information. So, I turned into a monumental bitch, shoved my way to the front of a line, and the attendant had no idea what was going on. He told me the gate but didn't know if the flight was still there or not.

I took off, leaving my family looking after me in bewilderment. I ran like I've never run before. I'm pretty sure I heard the theme to Chariots of Fire playing. I think I must have looked totally majestic and not at all like the family in Home Alone when they're all lurching through O'Hare.

I ran through terminal after terminal, from A to B to C, looking for someone to drive me but finding nothing. And then, suddenly, I was at the gate. The very deserted, very dark gate.

Where a lone flight attendant was closing the door to the walkway. "STOOOOOOOP!" I screamed.

We got on the flight. :)


The flight was nice. We pulled out from the gate right after we boarded, but we sat on the runway waiting to take off for about 2 hours. I think I even slept for about three hours.

Oh, by the way? Offering a choice of movies between RV and Shaggy Dog? That doesn't really count as a choice. They did also have House Hunters on for a while (best. show. ever.), but suddenly the channel changed to golf. Ugh.

Well, anywho, we arrive in Venice, and it's lovely. The descent in was truly incredible.

I've driven down in several times before, but this is the first time I've flown in – the view of the Alps, and then the fields and vineyards and terra cotta roofs and the sparkling sea beyond...it's fantastic.

Then it was time to pick up the luggage. I know you know how this story ends, and I kind of knew it too, but after that miraculous save of our flight, I was clinging to a little sliver of hope.

Of course the bags weren't there. And of course this is Italy, and of course service sucks, and of course no one at the airport was terribly helpful. We filled out a claim and are desperately hopeful that the bags will come at some point.

I felt okay about it, even going a day wearing the same clothes I've been wearing since Tuesday morning at 6 (eeeeeeeew!)...even without any makeup...with no hairbrush...no good walking shoes...no hair conditioner (do you know what happens to my hair without conditioner? It is currently staging a hostile takeover of the ship. I think it's winning!)...um...where was I? I don't think I'm that okay with it after all. See, I know what happened...they just didn't have time to get the bags on our plane, given that the connection was so tight, and so our bags will be on the flight that arrives tomorrow.

Except that I talked to the concierge about it so she could track our bags for us. When we told her our bags didn't make it, she said, "Oh, you must have been on US Airways." Gee, how did you know that? "It's always US Airways. The cruise before this 460 people didn't get their bags!" Oh, you mean at the airport? "No, they never got them. Who knows where they are!"

She didn't seem to think we would be seeing our luggage. Like, ever again. Apparently US Airways sucks for bags and the Venice Airport sucks even more. Bye-bye five pairs of jeans. Bye-bye new cute shirts. Bye-bye all my evening gowns (and bye-bye being permitted to attend the ship's formal events...formal events such as, um, DINNER). Bye-bye to all the baby's clothes and diapers. Maybe she can be potty trained in the next day or so. At 8 months. It could happen, right?

Anywho...so that's put a bit of a damper on everything. I'm trying to be a grown-up about it, move past it if the bags don't come and make the best of it I can. Maybe I can find some clothes in Croatia if the bags don't arrive tomorrow ('cuz who doesn't love them some hot Croatian fashions?). And I totally didn't cry when I got out of the shower and tried in vain to comb through my 900 pounds of hair with only my fingers.

Here's hoping for good news tomorrow!

Five People You Meet in Flight

1. The Talker
Where ya from? Whatcha readin'? Whaddaya do for a living? Got kids? Hobbies? Famous ancestors?

The Talker wants to know all that, and more. He doesn't actually care about your answers, because really all he wants to do is talk about himself. He will often interrupt your answers to his questions so as to ensure that he accomplishes the maximum amount of talking-about-himself that is humanly possible prior to arriving at the destination.

A hardy soul, The Talker is not to be deterred. Reading a book, wearing earplugs, working on your laptop, using the restroom, projectile vomiting – The Talker has seen it all before, and he's not about to let it rain on his TMI parade. He can, and will, talk over it.


2. The Kicker
The Kicker is the most adorable child in the world. Don't believe me? Ask his mommy. Better yet, ask his mommy to stop The Kicker from kicking your seat. Mommy knows you can't possibly be serious, because The Kicker is so darn adorable. Everyone loves him. Everything he does is adorable, including kicking seats. Besides, he's a kid, and kids kick seats, and there's nothing she can possibly do about that, now is there?

The Kicker often also exhibits characteristics of The Shrieker.


3. The Enigma
Tall, dark, and mysterious, The Enigma defies all convention, remaining preternaturally unperturbed by the mayhem around him.

Not quite a god, but better than any ordinary man, The Enigma achieves the impossible: deep, peaceful sleep, from the moment he takes his seat until the moment the plane lands.

His ways are not for mere mortals to understand.


4. The Recliner
The Recliner is a very important person. Much more important than you. The Recliner needs to be comfy. The Recliner is only comfy when his seat is reclined back as far as it possibly can go, preferably onto your lap. He enjoys looking up your nostrils and watching as you develop a twitch.

The Recliner doesn't care that you can't reach your bag underneath his seat. He doesn't care that you can't work on your laptop. He doesn't care that he's crushing your knees.

He DOES care if you "accidentally" jostle him while he relaxes. He will proceed to rain curses down upon your head, and then he will call the flight attendant. The flight attendant will also lecture you, because it is The Recliner's right to recline to his heart's content.

The Recliner enjoys reclining his seat so much, he never ever raises it. Not even when he's eating, which he manages by awkwardly perching at the end of his seat. You know that inside, he is laughing at your inability to eat because you cannot open your tray.


5. The Martyr
The Martyr has spent one too many flights sitting behind The Recliner, and he knows the pain of the reclined-upon. As a result, he will never, ever recline his own seat, no matter how uncomfortable he might be, no matter how long the flight, no matter how exhausted he is.

The Martyr is always seated behind The Recliner. On every flight.

My Daddy Loves Me

ME: "I have a headache."

DAD: "Here, take one of these."

ME: "What are those?"

DAD: "Headache pills."

ME: "The bottle looks weird. Where did they come from?"

DAD: "Oh, I found them at the back of a cabinet I was cleaning out."

ME: "Dad! These expired in 1988!"

DAD: "Yeah, so?"

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They tasted like burning.

It's a Delicacy

So, I've got a little bit of the OCD. Maybe you didn't know that about me. (Or maybe you DID, if you subscribe to my Atom feed. Which I thought I had disabled, but in reality I only succeeded in removing the link from my site. So you know how I can't leave each post alone, and keep editing and editing and editing, and you keep getting the same post over and over and over OMG I'm so embarrassed.)

Anyway. Back to the OCD. It's gotten a lot better. I owe it all to law school. When you spend three years mired in that long dark tea-time of the soul, little things tend to fall away. Like reading novels, getting together with non-law school friends, and suffering from a mental illness.

So I guess law school cures mental illnesses! Although word on the street is that it causes mental illnesses. Hm. I guess law school cures your pre-existing mental illnesses and then supplies you with shiny new ones.

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Here's the thing. I'm pretty sure we're all eating bugs every day. Spiders, roaches, assorted other nasties, all ground up in the processed foods we buy. Think you're safe because you only eat your own organically grown foods? Ha. Ha. Ha.

And I'm okay with that, now. Bugs are nutritious, and what I don't know can't hurt me.

If I ever needed proof of how much my OCD tendencies have diminished, last night surely provided it. I was eating take-out. It was good. I mean, really good. Yum yum yum. So...I find a bug in my food.

I picked it out and threw it away. And then I continued eating.

I am cured!

TV or Not TV

Converts to a faith are usually the most extreme. Perhaps you've met one of the most noxious varieties: members of the Church of No TV.

They're not hard to spot. All it takes is someone's mention of something he or she saw on TV recently. The no-TVer may be all the way on the other side of the room, but their ears are ever-attuned to seek the utterance of those fatal words. At this point, they're certain to zip their way over so they can declare their faith to all, out loud and proud: "TV? Hmph. I don't watch TV!"

Then they'll proceed to regale you with tales of all the Far More Fulfilling things they do, such as a) the watching of very important movies (very important movies are usually in Farsi with French subtitles, shot entirely in black and white, and instead of actors they feature brooms with glued-on smileys for faces), b) the attending of very important cultural events, and c) the having of a life that is so very important and busy (read: better than yours) that they couldn't imagine even having time to watch TV!

And of course they don't miss TV, because TV is a vast wasteland with absolutely no redeeming social value. Everything on it is horrible. It's all fat misogynists telling bathroom jokes and blond twentysomethings eating worms, and the no-TVer is so evolved, such a sophisticate, that it's all beneath them.

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Blah. I advise edging away slowly at this point. It's not just that the no-TVer doesn't watch TV, because whatever.

It's that this type of no-TVer is so eager to pass judgment on the fact that you watch TV. It's that they dismiss your chosen form of entertainment as so much dreck. It's that they appear to believe they are better than something like 99% of the people in this country. And it's that they just can't frigging shut up about how they don't watch TV – as evidenced by their need to shoehorn that observation into every conversation they possibly can, no matter how awkward.

I think they think it makes them look cultured. They're so suave, so artistically inclined, why, they need more to engage their minds.

Which is funny, because in a lot of ways they can appear a little culturally blind – incapable of engaging in everyday conversation that inevitably delves into matters of pop culture.

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I guess I take it personally. I think TV is great. I think trashy TV is a lot of fun to watch – it's been so incredibly relaxing these last few weeks.

But more than that, man, those people are missing out. How can they think there's nothing artistically and aesthetically redeeming about TV? Don't they get it? It's not all Fear Factor and Standard Sitcom #422. There are TV shows that are so wonderfully textured, so entertaining, and so well-written, it's hard to find a movie that compares.

My current favorite is Lost. It's amazing. The way the plots interweave, the way each episode grabs you and leaves you wanting more, the way the characters grow and change and are painted so richly.

In that respect, it reminds me of a show that really separates out the TV haves from have-nots (as in, those who have gotten it and those who haven't): Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I watched some repeats recently on cable (oh, brand new cable, how I love you so), and I was blown away again at how incredible it was. Yet so few people watched it. I think they were put off by the name (dumb), the movie (dumber), the cheesy special effects and monsters (they improved over time), or maybe even some of the low spots – see season 4. Too bad for them.

My Vacuum Sucks

As in, it stopped sucking. I'm having a party tomorrow, so of course my dog chose today to roll around in the mud, then force his way into the house as someone opened the door. Then he ran like a maniac through every (carpeted) room in the house.

And now the vacuum cleaner isn't working. So people will come over and see my muddy carpet and they will JUDGE me because it is clear that I am a bad, bad, awful, rotten, no-good woman who smears mud all over her carpets and then just leaves it there! "Shame!" they will say, laughing and pointing. "Hang your head in shaaaaaaaaame!"

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Who keeps calling my cell? Is it you? Stop it, I say, stop it already. It's 1:30 in the morning. I'm not answering. If you're stuck on the side of the freeway and need me to come pick you up, then, oh, I dunno, LEAVE A MESSAGE.

Otherwise I have no choice but to assume that you are the SERIAL KILLER lurking outside my house just waiting for me to answer so he can ask me if I like scary movies or if I've checked the children or do I know that he knows what I did last summer? And he DOES know, yes he does, because I did it with him. Wait, no, that's a different movie.