The Day After T's Big Day

June 22, 2009

After performing my matron-of-honor duties tirelessly yesterday, I spent the day lounging around at my parents’ lakehouse. It was a bit rainy outside, so we mainly stayed indoors. No tan, but I did get forty-five stars in Super Mario Galaxy.

In the evening, we walked all the way across the lawn to my grandparents’ lakehouse and had my very favorite dinner with my nana and papa and aunt and uncle. Spaghetti and meatballs, fresh bread, green salad, and red wine. Don’t ask me why, but it just doesn’t get any better than that for me.

Last Day in Paris

Who knew windmills could be so durn elusive?

June 17, 2009

At 12:01 AM, we were still up and Dean poked me and said “happy anniversary.” What a romantic. Three years married. Looks like this thing is going to stick.

It was our last full day in Paris, so we decided to make it count. Earlier plans of relaxing forgotten, Dean tied on his sneakers. I would have too, if I owned sneakers, but they are dreadfully unfashionable, so I do not. However, I wore sensible yet stylish flats. We were going marathon sight-seeing.

Lady Liberty in the middle of the Seine was a quick stop. She is much smaller in Paris than her sister in NY, but just as pretty.

Then we took the metro north to the area just east of Sacre Coeur. As we walked up the steps and popped out of the ground like gophers, I had the distinct feeling that maybe we ought to run back down. There were a lot of street vendors, but not the pretty awning-ed ones. You could buy chestnuts that were roasting over a paint can full of coals (yum, lead-smoked nuts), or miscellaneous items out of re-appropriated shopping carts. I was sure the map said that Sacre Coeur was just a few blocks away, so we kept our heads down and put one foot in front of the other until we saw the big dome.

The stairs that Rocky runs up are nuthin compared to the millions of flights we had to trek up to get to the church. It was either several million flights of stairs or perhaps ten flights. Thinking back, I’m almost sure it was the former. I made several Led Zeppelin “Stairway to Heaven” jokes near the beginning of the climb, but by the end I was just concentrating on crawling and gasping for water. Dean, bless his wonderful heart, offered me a piggy-back ride around flight five. I thought about it, but I didn’t know how I could accept and also maintain my position that I weigh 120, so I politely declined.

Sacre Coeur was worth the climb, which is saying a lot. The interior was gorgeous and since tourists weren’t allowed to take pictures, it didn’t get that crowded. We walked around and marveled for a bit at some incredible mosaics, then went back outside.

The view of Paris was awesome from there! Buildings and buildings as far as the eye could see. There were more steps right to the front of the church, and a musician with an amp and a guitar was standing at the base, singing anything requested of him. A huge crowd just sat on the steps enjoying his show. Everyone sang along when they knew the words, and there was this general sense of well-being and camaraderie among all of us there. Now if they could make the mass experience more like that, I’d probably enjoy going to church a lot more.

From reading, we learned that Sacre Coeur was the alleged location of the martyring of St. Denis, a bishop and the patron saint of Paris. St. Denis was beheaded by the rather nasty Romans, and legend has it that he posthumously picked up his own head and marched North with it. Where he finally came to rest, a pious widow buried him and the Parisians later built the Cathedral of St. Denis over his tomb. Looking at our map, Dean and I decided it was too far for us to walk even with our heads still attached, so we went about looking for the next metro stop.

Not wanting to brave the streets from which we’d just come, we set out due West from Sacre Coeur. It was like night and day. There were charming cobble-stone paths lined with tourist-y crafts, gelaterias, and artists showing beautiful paintings. We continued on and found the area where I told Dean I would be buying my Paris vacation-apartment as soon as I make my first billion--Montmartre. He agreed. With me making a billion dollars, that is. Montmartre has shady trees, fantastic boutique-type shops, and wrought iron balconies on very French-looking buildings. Just lovely.

My tourist book said that the windmills that inspired such artists as Van Gogh and Renoir were right around our location, so we did a few laps around the block to try to find them. We could not. After passing a young blond man with a backpack and a map twice, we eyed each other and stopped. He asked us a question in French, so we looked very confused. He switched to some other language. (German?) We stuttered, “Anglais?” And so he switched to English. Dammit, all these Europeans are so much more worldly and cultured than us. Turns out he was looking for the tricky windmills as well, so we compared guidebooks and maps and decided it was an evil joke the French were playing on us, and that the windmills must not actually exist. We found a replica-windmill by a restaurant and took pictures of that before parting ways.

Continuing through Montmartre, we saw some famous cemetery. We don’t generally spend too much time looking at dead people, or their resting places for that matter, so it was more like a walk-by.

We found our metro stop and went up to St. Denis. For a headless dead guy, he sure did manage to get pretty far. The Cathedral of St. Denis is now the necropolis for French royalty and houses such big-name remains as King Louis and Marie Antoinette and other famous royal Frenchies. I read some plaques, but no word on whether Sarkozy is being saved a spot. Again, we can only look at boxes containing old dead people for so long, even if they are ornate sarcophagi, so it wasn’t too long before we headed back into town.

Notre Dame was close to the hotel, so we thought that would be a great place to end the evening. Plus, they light it up at night so I wanted to check out that action. Being June, I guess, it got dark super-late--maybe 9:30 or 10 PM, so we had time to sit leisurely at an overpriced tourist-laden cafe right next to the church and have some snacks and wine. They were having some sort of concert inside the church, so we couldn’t go in, but the sounds of the choir emanated through the square and the strains were great to hear. Sure enough, as it got dark, the lights came on. I’ve said so many things were beautiful in Paris already, and this was, too. Looked like a postcard. We walked around the entire structure, and I think I may have liked the back even better than the front, with its regal flying buttresses. We saw a statue we recognized on the front facade--a man holding his head in his arm. St. Denis. Apparently, that’s how he is most often depicted. How awful for the poor guy. Dean and I discussed what we’d like to be holding for all effigies of us for centuries to come. Dean quickly settled on a football. I couldn’t decide between a BlackBerry or a martini glass.

Walking back, we passed probably the coolest street performer we’d seen thus far. A young woman was somehow twirling / hula hooping fire with various batons and baton-like structures. Her male co-performers did highly physical break dance stunts around her. Now, fire is a quick way to win me over, and so are shirtless young men, so I loved it.

We got back to the hotel completely spent, ready to fly back to NY.

Paris, Day 3

You can dress me up, but you can't take me out. In the gardens at Versailles.

June 16, 2009

The breakfast situation at the hotel worked out very well, because I tend to get cranky if I’m not fed very shortly after I awaken. A nice cup of tea and fifteen more pain au chocolats later, I was ready for my day.

We’d decided to take the train to Versailles, France to see Louis the XIV’s palace. By this time, we considered ourselves professional riders of the metro system and had no problems figuring out our transfers, even on the confusing C line. We got there around 10 AM and the line was already huge. You have to wait on on line to buy tickets, then a different line to clear a security post to gain entrance. Since Dean and I are both efficiency nazis, he stood on the ticket-buying line while I stood on the security/entrance line. Worked out perfectly. Dean jogged over with the tickets just before I reached the security post. Mental high-five.

They were having a fountain show, so we went to the gardens first. The gardens are HUGE. I am not sure exactly how huge, but it took us an hour of brisk walking to see about half of them. There are trees or hedges trimmed into perfectly squared off shapes that make a maze, and every so often you come to a clearing with beautiful fountains, statues, and/or trellises. I was a bit surprised to see so many Greek god statues and fountains, thinking they would tend more toward the Christian theme, but they were all fantastic, spouting water from all types of orifices.

Tuckered out, we sat by the big, perfectly manicured pond and munched on a crusty baguette with edam cheese for a little while. It felt super-French. We decided to go check out Marie Antoinette’s quarters, which we naturally thought would be quite close to her dear husband’s Louis’s digs. Absolutely not. They were over a kilometer away. We huffed and puffed our way there, taking altogether too much exercise for my liking. The rooms were a bit more understated though meticulously appointed, with more of a flirty, feminine flair. Light pastel walls with white moulding, white plaster flower designs. It was not huge, like Louis’s place. It was a good-size two-story home with perhaps more marble and chandeliers than you might find in your local suburb. I could definitely see myself living there, but I doubt that would be allowed.

Then we made the trek back up to the main palace, which was not just fit for a king, but a giant-king. We saw the two-story throne room with its huge gold pipe organ, a fireplace so big they used full tree trunks for kindling, and a hallway with enough chandeliers to light an entire city. There were so many painted portraits of our boy Lou, I thought he must have spent the majority of his adult life posing for artists. At that point, the palace was getting crowded and we thought it would be a good time to head back. Tuesdays are apparently the day to take a school field trip in France, and the only thing I dislike more than crowds are crowds comprised of children. We made our way out around 3 PM.

In case any of you ever take the metro to Versailles, you should know that you need a different ticket to get back into Paris than you used on the way to Versailles. Truth be told, we knew that from last time but could not conveniently locate a place to buy the correct tickets. We’d never actually seen anyone’s ticket get checked, so we got on and didn’t think much about it. Until the French police pushed through the door to our car and demanded all of us passengers show our tickets. Dean is notorious for telling the truth, so I elbowed him and told him to let me do the talking. I brightly produced what I knew to be the wrong tickets and they explained to me that they would have to charge us a fine while I did my best to look utterly perplexed (not that hard for me, actually). “Je suis desoles,” says I contritely. (Learned that from our movie last night.) I offered to buy the correct tickets, if they could sell them to me. Not possible. I offered they could take two metro tickets for each of us to make up the difference in price. Nope. But, somehow, we chatted a bit more in broken English (them) and broken French (us) until they had agreed to waive the fee since this was our first time in Paris (not true), we were on our honeymoon (complete fabrication), and they’d given us a restaurant recommendation by Notre Dame.

We’d just had a very pleasant experience with the French police, so I wasn’t expecting what happened next. On our way back through the center of Paris, we got off the Concorde stop. Incidentally, it’s a beautiful square with an impressive fountain and ornate street lamps. The American Embassy/Consulate is right there and Dean wanted to check with the Marine on duty. He is thinking about trying to get embassy duty next, and wanted to get the Marine’s perspective. We marched up to the embassy with passports in hand. Two French officials were guarding the entrance. I flipped my passport open and held it like an FBI badge. They said, in French accents, that I couldn’t go in. I was very confused. Had I not seen dozens of movies where people dash for the embassy and are granted immediate access just by running in slow motion and shouting, “Open the gates! I’m an American!”? I explained to them patiently--I’m an American. That (pointing) is my land. They insisted I could be granted access only with an appointment. Which we did not have. Not even sure why French police were guarding my embassy, I was just about to use my American authority to fire those two, but Dean began gently guiding me away by the elbow. He had an opinion that it would be best not to cause an international incident. Color me disappointed. Now I know a scene from my very favorite movie, The Saint, (with dreamy Val Kilmer) is fake.

We had decided we had to do laundry since it had been a few weeks. We located a laundromat near the hotel and took a little bag over. Dean and I must have looked super confused by the whole set up, because a local took pity on us and helped us with the whole process. You used a central console to activate the washer or dryer you picked. We almost caused a riot as we took out our dry clothes and offered the dryer to someone. Apparently someone else had been waiting longer. There was a bit of rapid-fire French exchange between the two while we hurriedly stuffed the unfolded clothes back into the bag and scurried out.

The rest of the evening was largely uneventful. More wine, another cafe. Perfection.

Paris, Day 2

I bet this guy owns at Pictionary.

June 15, 2009

We woke up without an alarm clock (room didn’t actually have a clock, at all), which is probably the nicest part of being on vacation. I’ve always thought that shocking yourself awake with a loud buzz is a barbaric way to start a day. They had a breakfast nook downstairs at the hotel, so we went down and enjoyed my very favorite pastry in the world, pain au chocolat. I think I had seven of them.

It was a rainy day so we thought it would be good to hit up the Louvre, a nice indoor activity. Just like NY, when it starts to rain in Paris, men magically appear on street corners hawking cheap umbrellas. Very convenient. We took the metro right to the Musee de Louvre stop and walked through the concourse underground right up into the main entrance area. We’d gotten hopelessly lost in the bowels of the Louvre last time, so we got a map and studied all the different wings. After looking at the map, we were able to determine that we were definitely going to get lost again, so we put it away and just started wandering. We saw a lot of stuff we hadn’t seen the last time we were there, and some stuff we had. We caught a glimpse of a room that was chock full of statues being stored. Gorgeous statues. They store extra art like I store canned goods.

We saw artists who set up their canvases to copy paintings that were in the Louvre. They were amazing, every detail was the exact same. I bet those replicas go for a ton on the black market.

It was still raining, so we thought we’d go on an old-fashioned date to dinner and the cinema, as the Europeans say. After ample research, we figured out that movies listed with “VO” after the title meant they were shown in English with French subtitles. There were not too many, but we opted for Sunshine Cleaning, which won something or another at Sundance. We went to buy our tickets before dinner, which struck the ticket agent as very odd. She kept explaining to us that the movie started after 9 PM, and it was only 6 PM now. We assured her we understood. I guess that is not the normal way of buying tickets.

We looked around the Bastille area and found a little cafe with an awning nearby and sat down. Bottled water is just as expensive as wine, so I couldn’t think of any excuse not to get a big ol’ carafe of red wine. I can’t really conceptualize volume in milliliters, so I just chose the highest number. Like always, we tried to speak our French and were quickly recognized as Americans, so the waiter switched to English for us. Dean ordered pasta carbonara, which had quickly became one of our favorite dishes while we were in Italy. The waiter asked him if he wanted it with “om.” It took Dean three “perdon”s and the waiter articulating “ommm” as best he could for Dean to understand the man was saying “ham.” Oui. Om would be tres bien.

We wiled away a few hours watching Paris in the rain and munching on delicious food. It’s the best waste of time ever. Then it was time to get going to our movie. The way it’s done where we went is you wait outside until they open the theatre ten minutes prior to the show time. We’re both usually pretty bad movie-talkers, but since that didn’t seem accepted, we tried to keep quiet. There were a few funny parts, and I have to admit we were the loudest guffaw-ers. Generally it was a cute flick, and it was fun to experience something so every-day in a foreign country.

Barcelona to Paris

June 14, 2009

The cruise ended today, but instead of going home, we went to Paris.

The first thing I noticed about the woman sitting next to me in the Barcelona airport was her sparkly shoes. I thought maybe she didn’t need to get on a flight, she could just click her heels and say “there’s no place like home” a few times. Next thing I noticed is that she was sewing up the fly of her pants with a needle and thread. In the middle of the terminal. While she was wearing them. So, yeah, people-watching was pretty fun today while we waited hours and hours for our plane.

We finally got on our flight to Orly, France around 7 PM. The landing was so bumpy, the whole plane (save myself) erupted into cheers and applause once we were safely on the ground. I rather thought an admonishment would be in order. When the pilot lands the plane extra-smoothly, then I will clap. But we survived, so my vacation was not ruined after all.

Once again, there was no security or customs or uniformed personnel of any kind anywhere to be seen as we got off the flight. Not that we wanted the scrutiny, but darn it, this passport is not going to stamp itself!

We sat in traffic most of the way to the center of Paris. The taxi driver explained (may have been after several dozen questions from me) that many people in Paris have second homes in the country and Sunday night is when they all come back to the city for the weekdays to work.

We finally got to an adorable boutique hotel in the center of Paris right off the Seine, quite close to the Notre Dame cathedral. Last time we were here, we stayed in a very traditional hotel with a French-Provencal feel. This time, we went kind of funky and modern at the recommendation of our credit card concierge service. The room we got is art-deco with a cool black and white patterned wall and a bright lime green bedspread and accents. It is a bit sparse on the amenities, but it’s got that, how the French say “je ne sais quoi.” I believe the translation is, “crappy amenities.”

We carted our bags upstairs (no elevator) a charming spiral staircase that looks great, but would be a challenge to even the most coordinated. And I can’t pretend I count myself among them. We got ourselves situated, but graceful it was not.

We’ve been to Paris before, so this time we thought we’d take it slow, not try to fit too much in. That’s what we said. But really it just goes against our nature. As soon as we put our bags down, we decided to get back out and grab a romantic meal and go watch the Eiffel Tower light up as it turned to dusk. I told Dean the romantic part of that plan would be much better facilitated if he would not insist on referring to dinner as “chow.”

We tried French-Chinese food, a first for us, and a great surprise. It was delicious. I heard the woman who was taking our order switch through several different languages with other patrons and I had to ask her, how many did she speak? Five! And not even related ones. Mandarin, French, English, Spanish, and I forgot the last one. All I can speak is English, and even then, only snarkily. If I were her, I’d quit my job at the restaurant and go work at the U.N.

Quite a few tourists were around the Eiffel Tower, taking pictures and relaxing on the grass. I took seventy five pictures at least as the sky grew darker and the tower lit up. We crossed the river where Dean thrilled himself by finding the same crepe stand he had a crepe from three years ago. We walked along the Seine for a little and took the metro back to the hotel. TV didn’t work. This would never fly in the U.S. Everyone knows Americans can’t function without TV.

But we fell asleep easily to the soft sounds of city life through the window, looking forward to tomorrow.

Cannes

Fru-fru and Shu-shu being taken for their walk outside of the opulent Hotel Carlton.

June 13, 2009

We woke up after we were already into the Port of Cannes today, and luckily Dean was feeling better. The view from the balcony was amazing. I could tell I was going to love the French Riviera.

We went ashore and set off on the main strip, Boulevard de la Croisette. We stopped at the Notre Dame de Bon Voyage, I think the only church I’ve seen with a full crystal chandelier right in front of the altar. Walking a bit further, I salivated as we passed Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Gucci, Salvatore Ferragamo, and the list goes on. We reached the Hotel Carlton, which rates a ten out of ten on the fancy-schmancy scale. Built in 1911 by Henri Ruhl, its twin black cupolas are rumored to be modeled after the breasts of La Belle Otero, a half-gypsy courtesan. Seriously, I did not make that up. Read it in a book and everything.

To the front of the hotel is the beach, lined with gold-and-white beach umbrellas and padded lounge chairs. The staff raked all the sand on the beach lest their guests be offended by an unsightly footprint.

We also saw where the Cannes Film Festival takes place. The Allee de Stars, much like our Hollywood Walk of Fame, is where movie actors put their hands and signatures into the sidewalk. Timothy Dalton, Sharon Stone, Julie Andrews, and Mickey were some of the names and hand prints we saw. With this motion picture mecca and all the opulence around, I was positive I was going to see Johnny Depp or George Clooney on holiday so I kept my eyes peeled.

There was a fantastic street fair in the Marche Aux Fleurs across the street, so we made our way over there. I sipped on a Coca Light (that’s French for Diet Coke) while we browsed antiques plates, jewelry, leather-bound books, and paintings.

Then we had the brilliant idea to march up to a lookout point by the Musee de la Castre up the steep and winding Rue Mont Chevalier. I had to bring Dean back to reality several times as he was re-living his bootcamp glory days to remind him that not all of us were Marines and we might prefer to saunter up the hill. At the top, there was some sort of wine tasting event going on. We don’t speak fluent French, but no one kicked us out, so we joined in and enjoyed ourselves immensely chomping on a crepe with Nutella taking in a terrific view of the coast line.

Before we went back to the ship, we took a short ride in a little motorboat and zipped along the coast. Riding the waves on bright blue Mediterranean in the South of France was blissful.

Sick Day

July 12, 2009

Today we got into Livorno at 7 AM and Dean woke up feeling awful. Generally a much better sick person than I am, he insisted on getting up and dressed and going about our plan to go to Pisa. He made it almost to the shuttle bus that was to take us into downtown Livorno before he had a most un-Dean-like episode. He was being a smidge moody. Being moody has always been my responsibility in this relationship. I’m very good at it, and Dean lets me shine. So I knew right away he must be feeling particularly sick. I marched him back upstairs with increasingly weaker protests and put him to bed, where he promptly fell into such a deep sleep I checked his breathing every so often.

After a few hours with no activity from Dean, I stopped by the library, mailed a few postcards, and laid out on the deck in one of those comfy chairs for awhile. I read “No! I Don’t Want to Join a Bookclub” by Virginia Ironside. It was cute if you like the humour of a saucy older British lady, which I do. At noon-thirty, I checked in on Dean. No sign of movement. I figured it was best to let him sleep it off, which is his usual method of dealing with sick.

Dean woke up groggily at 7:30 PM feeling a little better. We watched a few movies from the pay-per-view on the room TV. “New in Town,” with Renee Zelwegger, and “Inkheart,” with Brendan Fraser. Both just barely mildly amusing. Then, only because Dean was feeling sick, I let him watch Fox News for a little, which I loathe. He is SUCH a Republican sometimes.

Roma

June 11, 2009

Roma! Wonderful, wonderful city.

We pulled into the port city of Civitavecchia this morning. With a few of our fellow cruise passengers, we struck out to find the train station. We walked along the road next to the beautiful blue sparkling Mediterranean. On the way, we saw a bronze bust...with graffiti on it. Dean takes this as conclusive proof that his theory about graffiti is correct. Even I have to admit, it’s not looking good for me. When we reached the stazione, nine euro bought us an all-day pass. Such a deal!

For forty-five minutes, I had my nose pressed to the window looking at the Italian countryside. At one point, there was a field of sunflowers as far as the eye could see. Breathtaking. I daydreamed about living in a villa in Lazio until we got to the Roma San Pietro stop and hopped off the train.

We stuck with two people from the cruise most of the day, Rema and Yogi, good people from Chi-town. The four of us found St. Peter’s Square and breezed through a quick security line into the Basilica. I felt like I was back in Catholic school when guards walked briskly up and down the line inspecting people’s outfits for appropriateness. Literally, the Fashion Police. I had worn a knee-length sundress with a little short-sleeved blouse over it. I guess skirts have to be at LEAST knee-length, no shorter, so I wiggled mine down and breathed a sigh of relief as we were granted admittance. As we walked around mouths agape staring at the ceilings, we were cordoned off to one side by guards. A procession exited one room, including a man in a pointy hat. Dean is sure it was the pope. I couldn’t think they would just allow him to potter about like that. Yogi made the valid point that this was probably like the pope’s living room. I’m still not sure.

Then we went down to the tombs, all labeled in Latin. Many people were congregated around Johannes Pval II, which I brilliantly deduced was Pope John Paul II’s resting place. We wanted to see the Sistine Chapel, but it was closed on account of it being Corpus Christi day, the locals told us. On the way out of the square, I checked the “statue” in the ground I’d just seen on the Angels and Demons movie. By that time, the line to get in had grown to stretch all the way across St. Peter’s Square. I’m sure having just come out of a church, it was extra wrong to revel in others’ misfortune, but seeing the super-long line just made me thrilled with our timing.

Dean bought us gelato as my mid-morning snack. I had a cup of pineapple, amazing, and he had a cone with a vanilla-nutella swirl that I kindly helped him out with. Also amazing.

We rode the metro like pros to our next stop, the Colosseum. I personally don’t like to think of the “games” that went on there, but it was kind of surreal seeing the famous structure in person. Then we passed the national monument for Vittorio Emmanuele II, a rather impressive monument, even for Rome. I believe that guy is responsible for uniting much of Italy. We saw his name around a lot, so I gather the Italians appreciate his efforts. Next on the list was Trevi Fountain. Legend has it if you throw in one coin, you ensure your return to Rome. The second coin allows you to make a wish. Fantastic marketing ploy by the Rome Chamber of Commerce, I expect. But Dean and I threw our coins anyway, because in a city like Rome it’s easier to believe that wishes just might come true.

Then it was lunch time and the four of us set about finding a pizza, because it is a sin to go to Italy and not try the pizza. We found a little ristorante and ordered, with gestures and pointing, a margherita pizza and a pomodoro and buffalo mozzarella pizza. Apparently, it’s called buffalo mozzarella because it is made with buffalo milk. It was kind of tangy. The Chicagoans were shocked when they saw the pizza, being used to deep dish. It was thinner than your typical New York pie, but only the crust edges were crispy. They managed to keep the middle quite soft. It was very good. I’m not going to say it was better than my beloved NY pizza, but it was very good. If they invented it, we perfected it, how about that? But I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks about their hometown’s pizza.

We hit Piazza Navona next, admiring the fountains. Rome is so chock-full of beauty, it is ridiculous. Everywhere you look, there is art on top of art, layered on a base of art. Even the people have this effortless glamour about them. Despite the heat, the women looked perfectly coiffed with big hair done just-so, large sunglasses, statement pieces of jewelry, and you better believe they pulled off lipliner that we would consider too dark in the states, but they made you want to run out and buy it. The men wore suits with the two vents in the back (love it) or fitted jeans with a fitted polo or tee shirt, and aviator shades. I believe the word is “bellisimo”!

The Pantheon was incredible. The sun very obligingly streamed in through the hole in the ceiling (“hole in the celing” being the proper architectural term) and cast an other-worldly glow about the ancient structure. People just walked around it in a stunned silence, us included.

We continued on our whirlwind tour of Rome with a perma-smile stuck on my face. I was falling in love with the city, and I daresay it liked me back. We got to the Tiber River and were rather unnerved at not being able to put a name to its color. Sort of a cloudy brownish-greenish-bluish-gray. Undaunted, we merrily crossed in front of the Ex Palazzo di Guistizia which is, of course, another fantastic piece of architectural art that would normally stun you with its beauty but just managed to fit in with its neighbors here. We shopped for awhile in a street fair, looking at all the wares. Modern day Romans seem to be just as artistic as their ancestors.

For our last stop, we went into Castel St. Angelo which turned out to be the cherry on top of our whipped cream day. The castle itself was beautiful and interesting, but what made it perfect was the almost 360-degree view the rooftop offered of Rome and the Vatican. And since there don’t seem to be too many safety laws in Europe, there were no rails or safety glass to impede our view. We spent some time on the terrace just trying to soak it all up.

We finally made our way back to the ship, even though I didn’t want to leave, ever. I guess I am not worried though, because I know I’ll be back. I threw a coin in Trevi Fountain, after all.

Napoli

June 10, 2009

When I told my coworker Jake we were stopping in Naples, he had one word of advice: “Don’t.” I gently explained to him that I didn’t think I’d be able to convince an entire cruise ship to skip a port destination, to which he said, “Try.”

Then yesterday one of the cruise activities was a lecture about “10 Tips Pickpockets Use.”

And THEN I settled down last night to read the section about Naples in the Lonely Planet book Lisa gave me. It talked about the organized crime in Naples as well as the petty theft problems. So I was really looking forward to today!

I won’t make you wait until the end. We did not get pick-pocketed, purse-snatched, or brutally murdered today. But I will say it was probably better I went into Naples with those expectations.

We stepped off the boat and were immediately swarmed with Italian taxi drivers who walked along with you instead of letting you walk by. Fighting them off with polite smiles and, “No, grazi”s, we got to our first intersection. We quickly learned that every intersection in Naples is an adventure. There are rarely those helpful things known as traffic lights, and, much like SoCal, drivers seem completely unaware their vehicles come equipped with indicators. Fortunately, I have been jaywalking the majority of my adult life. We bobbed, we weaved, we made clever use of the shield-yourself-with-other-pedestrians technique.

The main thing I had wanted to see was the Duomo Cathedralle di San Gennaro, so we set off in that direction. The city was crowded, noisy, dirty. Most surfaces were covered in posters or graffiti, and the air was thick with exhaust. We watched a fire truck sit in the traffic, lights on and sirens blaring. There was just no place for the other cars to move out of its way. So, a travel tip--do not get caught in a fire in Naples.

As we walked down the streets, I queued into the local style. For girls, tight designer jeans and a tight shirt. For guys, tight designer jeans and a tight shirt. Dolce and Gabbana, Gucci, or Armani belts and sunglasses with the logo prominently displayed. The more rhinestones and studs on the outfit, the better. I know what you’re thinking, oh, just like Jersey. To that I would say, yes, you are correct.

We reached the Duomo, and this time my shoulders were appropriately swathed. We walked in through huge, ornate doors and I threw some holy water on each of us, because you never know, it couldn’t hurt. Though St. John’s Cathedral spoiled us, this place was beautiful in its own right. The busts of past popes lined the main aisle and the frescos were lovely. It also had something St. John’s Cathedral didn’t: the head and two congealed vials of blood of a saint. Sure, everyone thought it was weird when Angelina did it, but here the faithful gather three times a year to pray that the blood will liquefy and the city will be saved by their patron saint, St. Januarius. Now I don’t know that the city needs to be saved per se, but it could use a good scrubbing and, as Dean pointed out, maybe a couple of building codes.

From there, we headed over toward the Museo Acheologico Nazionale, a very large and very pink building where Naples houses some impressive Greco-Roman artifacts and art that was found in Pompeii. We attached ourselves to a tour guide giving a talk for a little bit, then went on our own way.

I enjoyed our walk to Piazza Dante even more so than Piazza Dante, I think. We saw some fantastic antique shops on the way, and in Europe, you can really get an antique. Not like in America where we consider Cabbage Patch dolls from the 90’s antiques. Dean had to convince me there was no way we’d be able to fit a little marble-topped end table into our luggage and I wistfully allowed myself to be pulled away. The most interesting thing to me about Piazza Dante was the mass of graffiti on the base of the statue and the lack of graffiti on the statue. This was a trend we’d seen other places as well. Dean and I shared a long discussion as to why. I thought the graffiti-ists must respect the statues if not the pedestals to be art, and would not want to deface the art. Dean thought the city probably just cleaned off the statue and said “eff it” to the pedestal. We’re still not sure who is right. Votes are welcome, provided they agree with my theory.

We continued to walk down Via Toledo with my purse cleverly wedged between us until we reached Castel Nuovo. Originally built in 1280, and then of course re-decorated several time since then, it sits right on the port and used to be the fortress of Alfonso I, King of Sicily and Naples. The triumphal entrance arch is carved white stone, a Renaissance Better Homes and Gardens winner for sure.

From there, we headed back onto the ship. Later in the evening we were soundly trounced in Solar System trivia by a couple of seventh graders. Not gonna lie, it hurt. At one point, the answer was the Seven Sisters constellation. I leaned over to Dean and said, “Hmm, I count eight stars.” The little nerd behind me heard me and said loudly, “That’s because there is a double star!” I really wanted to stick my tongue out at him.

We realized too late that we did not get a piece of pizza in Naples, but Rome is on the itinerary for tomorrow, so I will make sure to get one there.

Malta

June 9, 2009

After getting our breakfast in bed again, we went out to the balcony to watch the ship pull in to Valetta, Malta. What a beautiful coast! I made a mental note of all the prominent buildings because you never know when you will need to know a city’s skyline.

Dean arranged a private car to take us around the island, which was SO nice. Instead of piling into a dusty ol’ tour bus with a bunch of tourists (we hate tourists), we slid into leather seats in the back of a Benz. The driver took us anywhere we wanted to go, stopped if I wanted a picture of something, and waited for us if we wanted to explore on foot. Really the way to see the island! He chatted with us the whole ride and answered my incessant questions. Maltese is a very mixed language with very diverse influences, but English is the second language so communicating was easy.

One of the highlights the driver suggested was the president’s garden, so we stopped there. We hopped out of the car and walked through the peasant’s entrance (the presidente has his own entrance, of course). The flowers were bright and lovely and there was an intricately carved fountain with angels, but what shocked the heck out of me was rounding a corner and running smack dab into a peacock. No cage. Just a bright-blue, huge-feathered, kind-you-see-in-National-Geographic peacock. He was strutting about with plumage at full mast, so I whipped out my camera and started clicking. He didn’t actually seem to like that very much, or maybe he did, but the actions he took was he started to make noises and really get his tail feathers wagging and then he started toward me. So I quickly jumped up and advised Dean calmly to run very fast in the other direction.

We also went to Ta’Qali, a village that is a creative commune of artists making and selling fine goods. The driver walked us directly into a glass store whose sign quite plainly read “closed,” proceeded to turn on the lights and then marched us back to the glass blowing studio where we were, much to our relief, greeting by jovial hello’s. The artists made animals for us, twisting the molten glass into the shape of a rabbit, then a swan. Next we were taken to the pottery store, where the Queen of England had visited years earlier with the Maltese Prime Minister. To round out the village we saw some gorgeous handmade Maltese lace and delicate filigree making. Dean bought me a little silver filigree heart charm with my birthstone in it for my charm bracelet.

We drove to the center of the island to see Mdina, which depending on who you ask, was constructed right around 2000 BC. It is the old capital of Malta. We walked around with our necks craned looking up at all the marble and impressiveness. There is a vantage point from there where you can see about three-quarters of Malta. It. Was. Awesome.

We decided to get dropped off in the center of Valetta, the port city next to the cruise. I could hardly wait to see St. John’s Cathedral, which I’ve read so much about. I have to lay down some background now. The Malta sun gets brutally hot during the day, and we’d been warned by several people. Out of respect to my dear sister’s choice in bridesmaids gown which I will wear here in just a little bit (June 21), I chose a strapless sundress to wear today so I would not get unsightly tan lines and ruin her wedding pictures. (Lookin’ out for ya, T.) Also, I will point out that I have been told time and again by my wonderful and very Catholic mother that shoulders must be covered whilst in church. All of that stated, as I was walking into St. John’s Cathedral, I was accosted by a frenzied older woman who had to jump to get the piece of cloth she was carrying to my shoulder height, since I am, of course, nine feet tall. Immediately realizing the issue of my bare shoulders, my face flushed and I quickly complied but the image of the woman treating the situation like she’s jumping on a (very tall) grenade is so funny to me I just had to share. Even though I am sure I just embarrassed my poor mother, who admittedly has taught me better.

Crisis averted, we began to look around. Sumptuous is probably the best word for it. Lavish. Gold. Even with my eyes taking it in, it was hard to believe how rich everything was. Seriously, it looked like Donald Trump’s penthouse on steroids. (Anyone else watch MTV cribs?) We saw several Cavaggio paintings in the attached oratory, including his famous Beheading of John the Baptist. Then there were the huge illuminated carol manuscripts and floor-to-vaulted-ceiling tapestries that were so intricately woven, they looked like paintings. A gift from the Flemish in 1702. People really knew how to give gifts back then. Dean thought the Church should sell the building and its contents, and they’d surely be able to end hunger in Africa.

After the church, we wandered around Valetta a bit more, saw the Prime Minister’s office, shopped a bit, and headed back to the boat when we were a few minutes away from heatstroke.

At-Sea Day

June 8, 2009

The first full day of the cruise, an at-sea day. We woke up when our breakfast was brought to us, which I could very easily get accustomed to happening every morning, forever.

I put on a swimsuit and went up to the part of the sundeck labeled “quiet zone,” which I think I figured out is polite code for “no children.” The lounge chairs are huge, padded, and wicker, so I mainly just spent hours basking in the sun on the open sea. Dean, bless his caucasian heart, tends to get sun poisoning with absolutely astounding efficiency, so he stayed in-doors doing whatever it is Dean does when left to his own devices. We met up in the later afternoon, of course, for another trivia game! I am a bit ashamed to admit I do not know my castles, palaces, and royal buildings too well, but I enjoyed learning. And I kicked some cruise-ship butt on city skylines.

As nice as the day was, not being allowed to get off the boat and not having a steady internet connection really made me feel like I was camping, but not in the good, communing-with-nature way. I bought a few ridiculously expensive minutes on a shoddy satellite connection and checked Gmail, Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, and all the other really important sites. The only thing I was sorry to have missed was Mei’s birthday (happy birthday, Mei!), but shockingly everything in the states seems to have continued on in my absence.

In the evening, Dean and I dressed up to go to the Grand Pacifica dining room. Then Dean decided he would teach me to play Texas Hold ’Em in the casino. I pretended I was gambling in Monte Carlo, because that makes gambling classy. After tipping the dealer, I won $5! So unfortunately this means that Dean is just an average teacher.

Then the ship was having a white party, so we did it up Diddy style and made an appearance. We danced as we cruised toward Malta.

First Day of the Cruise

June 7, 2009

Cruise day! Dean and I, of course, had moved out of our apartment prior to our receiving the cruise tickets in the mail. That morning, we mentally prepared ourselves for a tough time explaining the situation and begging our way on board the ship in a different language, if necessary. But actually the boarding process went very smoothly. I attribute this mainly to Dean’s decision of getting a stateroom suite with a balcony. I have to give it to the man, he vacations correctly. While we were whisked off to a separate area to check in so as not to have to wait in line with the “commoners,” I realized why caste systems are still in place. They seem like a really good idea when you’re at the top.

We were ushered onto the ship and quickly found our room, which was wonderful. Located on the highest deck, it’s got a king-sized bed, a couch, a full bath, a flat screen TV, and our own balcony. We spent some time poking around the room, very pleased with ourselves, and then went about exploring the ship for awhile.

I expect ship living is very much like living in an old-folks home. So I rather think I will be well suited to being old, because I very much like the little activities the cruise plans for us. We came across a trivia game that I love. They have different categories, like mythological creatures, historical figures, etc. We quickly teamed up with another couple that, like us, was way too competitive for a trivia game without a prize. Fast forward a half hour, we were all high-five-ing each other for winning. Go us!

Dean made reservations at one of the specialty restaurants for that evening for French food. For my part, I donned a pretty dress and went about telling the waiters it was our honeymoon, then accepted the fawning most graciously. We had a wonderful meal by the ship’s window and watched Spain get smaller and smaller.

After dinner, Dean went to find the casino and I finished up my book on the balcony. (Monster, by Kellerman. I agree very much with Laurie’s review--“It’s okay.”) Dean’s evening was more productive than mine, as he came back with $310 in poker winnings.

We stuck a doortag on the room door with our breakfast-in-bed requests for the next morning and let the slight rocking of the boat lull us to sleep.

Barcelona, Day 2

Sagrada Familia, which my Uncle Tom tells me is a prime example of the architectural style of "melting sandcastle."

June 6, 2009

We decided to try the breakfast at the hotel today. Now, we are staying at this hotel by virtue of points from my Visa Signature card. It’s a very nice hotel and we probably should have known that the restaurant would be pricey. Luckily we had no idea during breakfast what the bill held in store for us, so I enjoyed the hearty breakfast immensely. Tomatoes baked with cheese, tortillas (omelettes), jamon serrano. Then we got the check for 50 euros, which with the current exchange rate, I approximate is about one semester of law school tuition.

Tummies full and wallet a little lighter, we headed out to our self-guided tour of Gaudi’s Barcelona. We started off at a church by his teacher. Then we made our way over to Barcelona’s crown jewel, the Sagrada Familia. When we first got there, we couldn’t find the entrance and wound up in the parishoners-only perpetual adoration room. Oops! I pretended to be sorry but secretly I was happy I got to see it. After circling the rest of the ginormous building, we got our tickets and went into the main cathedral. Despite all the scaffolding and construction equipment, it was amazing. The style, or blend of styles, is so unique and walking through the work in progress, you really feel like you’re seeing history being made.

Next up we made our way to Casa de les Punxes, a cool red brick turreted building. Then we saw Casa Mila, with its famous abstract wrought-iron balconies. Finally we hit Casa Battlo which we thought looked like it belonged in Atlantis.

One Spanish tradition Dean embraces fully is the siesta. He took a nap in the hotel room while I lay out by the bright-blue tiled pool on a padded chaise lounge overlooking the ocean. I didn’t expect to see palm trees in Barcelona, but sure enough, the beach is lined with them. It was a beautiful, relaxing afternoon.

After we got ourselves re-situated, we headed back out. We followed strains of music until we wound up at a street fair. There was a band, lots of people, many different crafts, and my personal favorite, food. While I try to stumble along with my limited Spanish (not even technically spoken here), Dean’s method of transacting is pointing at what he wants and then thrusting euros at people. I have to admit it is effective, as he bought us a bite of heaven in the form of puffy pastry filled with gooey chocolate to enjoy as we strolled up and down the tents looking at all the wares.

Then we made our way down to the beach by way of a park so I could dip my toes in the Mediterranean. As we walked along the dark sand arm in arm, we saw children playing soccer and men setting up their fishing lines. I think it was our first sunset walk on a beach, and it was gorgeous. Nothing like Spain to make you feel terribly romantic. We sat down to eat at one of the restaurants right on the shoreline and had a wonderful seafood dinner that was so fresh it almost swam off our plates, and of course, more wine. As far as I’m concerned, Barcelona rocks.

Barcelona, Day 1

I hope this kid is up-to-date with his vaccinations.

June 5, 2006

Where to begin? We had a fantastic day getting completely lost in Barcelona. This was mainly due to the fact my map was missing quite a few streets, but we actually enjoyed wandering and soaking up the city.

Our hotel is right by the beach, so to get into the center of the city, we had to take the metro. We sat at the station like we were waiting to jump into turning double-dutch jump ropes, pretty unsure of our next move. We didn’t know which train to get on, but after eyeing a few go by, we chose one and lo and behold, we chose correctly. Okay, the second time. The second time we chose correctly. We got off by La Placa de Catalunya, where pigeons and humans commingle with reckless abandon. Anyone who knows me knows that I am convinced that pigeons are rabies-carrying, winged mediums of Lucifer. Still, I couldn’t help but to be morbidly fascinated by the poor souls playing with the vermin, and took a lot of pictures. Oh, there was also a really nice fountain there and some impressive bronze statues.

We rambled on down to La Rambla, a beautiful tree-lined street in the heart of the city that just bustled with activity. We stopped at a little tapas bar for a snack and had rabbit in garlic sauce and a fresh mozzarella cheese salad that I could eat every day of my life. Born and bred in NY, I’ve seen my fair share of street performers, but the human statues on La Rambla were the best I’ve ever seen. Still, the highlight of La Rambla for me was La Boqueria de St. Josep. The food at this huge market was so fresh and so beautifully arranged, I felt like I was walking through a movie. We tried some fruit we still don’t know the name of (very dark pink with tiny black seeds) and just walked around marveling.

We wandered off the main road a few times when something caught our eye, and that’s how we found Esglesia de Santa Maria del Pi. It was a beautiful old cathedral with different depictions of Our Lady in dioramas running up either side of the nave.

At the end of La Rambla, we saw the tall statute of Colom keeping watch over the port, pointing out to sea. So, we took a left and kept on meandering. The side streets are incredibly narrow, but bikes, people, and even cars shared them relatively well. We ran into La Placa de Jaume, another pocket of action. We relaxed on steps for awhile with many chatting people, taking in the view of the market, listening to a street musician play Spanish guitar, watching a couple moved by the music perform an impromptu and wonderful dance.

I picked up a copy of Spanish Vogue from a newsstand, which is of course an essential. From people-watching, I would say that Barcelona style seems to be sort of a polished bohemian-chic. Lots of colors, patterns, scarves, flat shoes, slouchy bags, and hair in natural waves. This is just fine with me, as I was in my NY-all black with heels and spent a good portion of the day a little warm and a little sore in the feet. Tomorrow I’ll know better.

When the map told us the Arc de Triomf was nearby, we picked our way there. Made of red stone and ornately decorated, it was fantastic--but not as fantastic as the young skateboarders and bicyclists using the square to practice their tricks. I watched and applauded for a bit, and the more appreciation I showed, the more daring the stunts got. We moved on before anyone went and maimed themselves.

After a jaunt in the Parc de Ciutadella looking at sculptures and locals jogging and picnicking, we got back to the hotel around 10 PM, turned around, and went back out for dinner. Since all I can think about is tapas, tapas, tapas, Dean indulged me and we tried fried squid, chicken with caramelized onions and goat cheese, and tomato bread among a few other things. We planned tomorrow over candlelight and a few glasses of wine as we grew full and sleepy.

As far as days go, this one was pretty incredible.

Travel Day: JFK to Barcelona

June 4, 2006

Another travel day, from JFK to Barcelona by way of Dublin. You know those days where everything seems to go wrong? Well, this was exactly opposite. The desk clerk opted not to charge us for our well-over-the-weight-limit luggage, the flights were on time, and, most awesome of all, we somehow wound up in business class. Two Tylenol PMs later, I spent most of the flight passed out, drooling on Dean’s shoulder, which is to say I enjoyed the flight. When we passed through Dublin, Dean and I were both quite pleased that we got a Dublin stamp in our passports. On the layover, we asked airport personnel more questions than we needed to just to listen to the brogues. We also tried to spot an Irish person who was NOT wearing the color green. It was pretty difficult. They really like that color.

On the flight from Dublin to Barcelona, I tried a cheese-relish-coleslaw-spinach sandwich. It tastes exactly like it sounds. Weird.

Travel Day: SAN to JFK

Wednesday, June 3

A travel day, first leg of the big vacay. We spent most of the day on a plane between San Diego and JFK, an airport obviously designed by a mean-spirited, illogical toddler. We’d planned our entertainment for the ride, which involved watching the first season of the HBO series True Blood that came highly recommended by a friend. We quickly made a reputation for ourselves from about row 21 back as mothers clamped hands over little eyes that caught a glimpse of our R-rated laptop screen. Apparently vampires are really adverse to wearing clothes. Fantastic.

We spent the night in one of the two-star airport hotels before catching our flight to Barcelona the next day. As we drove up to the gray concrete building, Dean swore the place was a remodeled prison and was sure he could faintly make out the words “Correctional Facility” under the Ramada sign. He was going to try to request a room without bars on the windows. I thought this all this dialogue was hilarious, but I don’t think the Ramada shuttle driver did.

Finishing Up Becoming Homeless

Tuesday, June 2

The most productive day of my life, provided productivity is measured by the sheer volume of paperwork signed. Dean and I spent the entire day bopping from one office to another to get all of our paperwork in order for the big move. I got a call from my (ex-)boss Laurie, under the guise of asking a question about a contract I’d worked on. I told her the call made me feel special and needed, and then quoted her my hourly rate for any future questions. Later in the evening I spent some quality time at Lisa’s place, where she very generously lent me her washing machine to do a load. Dean and I had already been living in a hotel for a week, and I had caught Dean calculating the amount of days he would have to wear each pair of underwear to last him the duration of the trip. Thank you (so much), Lisa, for helping me make sure that plan never comes to fruition.

One Last Drink

Monday, June 1

A day for celebration, for several of us at work--for me, because it was my last day gainfully employed for the near future. We decided drinks were in order, and set about figuring out where the scene was on a Monday night in San Diego. It’s hard to admit you’re not as “cool” as perhaps you once were, but I did not know a happening spot off the top of my head. Undaunted, I relied on my homeboy Google to provide the 411. I found that several dedicated Yelp patrons suggested PB Bar and Grill for beginning of the week festivities, and I passed the information to my coworkers. I waved off their doubts, maintaining faith in my fellow Yelpers, and we set about meeting up there after work.

We pushed a few tables together by the window and bravely ordered some sushi. Kevin liked the place because you could smoke, which is his metric for a classy establishment. All was well until everyone across from me told me NOT to turn around. There’s only one thing to do when people tell you that, which is to turn around. So I did. And came face to face with a cockroach. I was able to quickly identify it because I had an apartment in Jersey for several years. This one was of the super-huge variety, well over seven feet long, and it quickly made his intentions known--to eat my brain and lay eggs in our stacked purses. Thinking fast, I screamed like a little girl and grabbed the purses out of his path. I didn’t feel bad because I don’t think anyone heard me over Dave.

The waitress rushed over to see why an entire table of people were curled up in the fetal position in their plastic chairs. When we explained the reason behind not wanting to put our feet on the floor, she got us a round of drinks on the house. How nice of her!

So I am definitely giving this place five stars on Yelp.