I am a lazy little wine soaked blob at this point....

Italy was lovely and lazy....I settled into a routine of sleeping until 11 or so, then it was off to meet my friend at the cafe near his work for a three course little lunch. After that a bit of e-mail, maybe a drink in Santo Spirito then to Prato for movies in Italian with English subtitles and some home cooked dinner...Rinse and repeat....I so needed that. Thus refreshed I caught the night train from Florence to Paris. However my Hitchcockian fantasy of speeding through the Alps soon dissolved into the reality of my 6 person sleeper. If the stank ass shoes parked under my coucher wasn't responsible for total fantasy dissolution, it was the near epic snoring coming from beneath me. Really...This guy deserved a medal. It was one of those deep glottal-stoppy snores that sound as if they emanate somewhere deep within the bowels of the earth. I slept so well. But I arrived in Paris in one piece, if a slightly sleepy piece and caught the metro to my hostel. I am now convinced I could navigate to the ends of the earth, if only it was laid out on a subway map. I set off to find the tourism office near my arrondisement, which of course meant I spent much of the day wandering in a lost, rain soaked stupor. I did stumble on the Pigalle district, home of the Moulin Rouge, which is basically an incongruous mix of hardcore sex shops and little tourist shops. I never have really needed a commemorative spoon on the same occasion I have been out looking for poppers and Vietnamese sex slings...But you never know I suppose. After that it was a stroll around the Rue de Rivoli and the Latin Quarter, with a brief break for multiple glasses of wine in a cafe of course. My days are becoming less and less ambitious by the day...This should bother me more....Oh...And I bought a hat. A cute hat...So I've got that going for me.

Ahhh..Italy

Mission accomplished....I have spent heaps of time sleeping, eaten a truly superior four cheese pizza (god how I love gorgonzola) drank some chianti (a welcome break from my near epic consumption of Rioja) and managed to sample a bit of Florentine nightlife. Near perfect weekend I reckon. I plan to spend the next few days in Florence, just wandering around, eating and searching for that damnable sweater (Benneton....I will find one at Benneton). After that its a night train to Paris, where I can hopefully pimp a newly acquired hostel insta-friend for free digs for a few nights, and then off to explore the rest of France for a week or two (damn dwindling travel time). My greatest hope for the trip is to resuscitate my rapidly fading Francais and stuff myself silly with cheese and wine. I have such lofty goals these days......

The Ultimullet....

Give you three guesses on how my last night was spent in Barcelona...Right, you only needed one , but whatever. We started at a rock bar that was playing a continuous loop of Skid Row tracks, a promising beginning in any country, and then ended up at some little bar where James (Mr. Rock from south England) knew the bartender, scoring us cheap and free drinks for the remainder of the evening. Sweet. Anthony, my hostel insta-friend and travel companion through much of Spain and Morocco, managed to make an appearance and a good time was had by all. Today was a bit of a loss, rainy with much time spent fruitlessly looking for a jumper, I mean sweater- damn brits- that was both warm and not idiotic looking and trying to master the intricacies of international parcel sending. However, I leave this evening on a flight to Pisa to see my friend from Florence, and I am so looking forward to as much nothing doing as possible. I want nothing more than to drink some wine, eat some pizza and spend masses of time in a warm clean bed that is not surrounded by 8 to 12 other human beings. I will return to Spain to see the north and basque county after a bit of time in France, but the siren call of homecooking and couch time is too strong to miss going back to Italy. So I take my leave of my Spanish friends but not without making time for a wee digression to discuss the ubiquity, no dare I say it, the complete and total domination of the mullet over the youth population of Spain. The boys have them , worn with oversize aviatoresque Eurotrash sunglasses, and the girls have them, but sported with tiny bangs and impossibly tight jeans and boots. I swear to god that it seems as if every human aged 16 to 23 has jumped on the mullet bandwagon. Color me culturally obtuse, but what the hell is going on here? The highlight of my fascination with this hairstyle that dares not speak its name was the spotting of the great white whale of mullets. Picture this....Male, late twenties, receding hairline in front, long curly, no...Wavy in the most feminine, undulating starlet hair, sense of the word, locks cascading to midback.....Its was, in the most true and complete sense of the word, the ultimullet.

One more ham and cheese sandwich and my head will explode

Barcelona is still wonderful.....I spent a bit of yesterday recuperating (so much for those saved up sleep points) and slowly getting into the day, coffee and yet another ham and cheese sandwich. Have I mentioned that the singular budget food option in Spain and Portugal is a ham and cheese sandwich (or ham and cheese on toast if you're feeling particularly spicy). I swear to god...if I eat one more of these my head will explode scanners style. Ubiquitous food options aside, I spent the rest of the day wandering aroung the montjuic district, a collection of gardens, museums and olympic facilities set high atop a hillside, and wandered around the fundacion Miro. The museum houses an incredible set of his work, from the early years up until his death. I think the work he did around the war years is my favorite. So much so that I think I may have to get a Miro star tattooed somewhere on my body in the near future. Anyways....after that it was back to the hostel to drink cheap wine with my new insta-hostel friends (a dready from Toronto stranded because of an unfortunate mugging, a substitute teacher and skipping coach from Leeds and a hard rock kid from south England). Hostels are wierd, wierd places. Today was spent perusing the works of Gaudi, especially Parc Guell and La Sagrada Falmilia. The man was insane, and I mean that in the most comlimentary sense of the word. The park includes the longest park bench ever made and enough undulating caverns and bridges to give the whole thing a cartoon on acid type of feel. This was built somewhere between 1900 and 1914. The chruch, on the other hand, is still not completed, having begun construction sometime in the late nineteenth century. Oh and there is 70 odd years left to go on the construction plan. It posesses the most intensely decorated facade ever, complemented by a ridicously cartoony and tall nave and central vaulting colored to look as if it could be worn to Studio 54 circa 1973. Oh and some of the spires are topped with baskets of mosaic fruit. This was a wierd, wierd cat....and clearly my new favorite architect.

Barcelona........

Alright...I feel human again. Some bad falafel and a grueling night train conspired to nearly kill me. I arrived in Barcelona early-ish yesterday morning, but ended up spending all day and night in bed. I shall spare you the gruesome details, but it literally felt if a small, heavily clawed being was trying to break free from the confines of my lower abdomen. However, this morning I awoke a new person. I set off down La Ramblas ,the main pedestrian thoroughfare of the old section of Barcelona and meandered my way through a few neighborhoods, ending up at the Picasso museum. It has an incredible variety of his work, from the very early figurative and pictorial work, to the final pieces of his life and career. It really was amazing to see the evolution of his art. Felling all Picasso-y I had lunch at 4 gats, an old hangout of the man himself. Slightly pricey, but as it was the first proper restaurant meal I 've had in days...Totally well appreciated. Then it was off to the gothic quarter to gawk at some architecture and check out the cathedral. Good touristy day all in all and I plan on using all of my saved up sleep points on a well deserved night out...Have I mentioned how much I love traveling.

We not in Europe any more toto

I successfully managed to meet up with my travel companions in Algecieras, Spain where we boarded a ferry for Tangier, Morocco. Two and a half hours later we are on African soil.....not bad. We caught the night train to Marrakesh, a tremendously comfortable 12 hour excursion, what with the leering men and the 30 Euros we saved by not paying for sleeper accomadations. At one point I had fallen asleep, all by my little own lonesome, only to awake with a man 12 inches from my face engaged in what could only be charitably described as the creepiest-death-sex stare ever. Luckily (or unluckily in a wanting no bodily harm to come to me kind of way) no one blinked an eye when confronted with my freaked out yelp. This was my one bit of sleep not interrupted by the train cops who would bang on the rack above our heads, point to our backpacks and bellow "no sleep" every hour on the hour. Seriously, they can have my grimy clothes, my rank undies and my few possesions....for the love of Allah I just want some sleep. We arrive in one piece and catch a petite taxi ( a tiny little hatchback, not to be confused witht the grande taxis, which are without fail mercedes) to our hotel. A triple, including breakfast and a hammam( described to me as a traditional bath where you are scrubbed by a tiny man with a big brush, which strangely enough we all declined) was less than 10 euros a night. I am beggining to like this country, creepy men aside. We set off to check out the center square with its bazaar. It is so unlike any place I have ever been before. Snake charmers, women in veils, stall of spices and live chickens, bangels and knockoff merchandise and cart after cart offering fresh squeezed orange juice. The markets are so mindbending it really ended up being our only activity for the day. The afternoon was spent drinking bad wine in a hotel bar and playing cards ( thanks to my family for the hearts training...I kicked ass). Crazily enough a heavily Islamic country doesn't have a lot of venues for drinking....go figure. At the hotel bar we met an American guy and a Moroccoan he had been hanging out with, and we all ate in the square at the little booths that pop up every evening. It is literally a little resteraunt city, errected every evening and gone by morning. After that they invitied us to an Irish pub, and as I had been to an Irish pub in every country I have visited so far, I figure why not. I can now say I have many answers to that deceptively simple question, "why not". Well firstly..the little Irish pub is in fact this bif Morrocon club type thing. And my travel companion and I are the ONLY women in it. Ok...no worries...there are only 15 or so people in the bar. We'll have a drink so as not ot offend our hosts and then go....Right// One beer later there are 80 or so men in the club...we are the only Americans and the only women. I'm sure we don't stick out that much. One more beer and I realize that there are women in the club to keep us company, only that their company is very much for sale. We are now not the only women in the bar, we are the only women that are not hookers. Right. Check please. Thus ends the Moroccan night life portion of our experiment.....

Who knew Granada is filled with hippies?

I am feeling human again thankfully. A night of sleep, and imagine this, no drinking has almost miraculous restorative effects...Granada is lovely and the Alhambra really is amazing. Its an old Moorish palace that is almost mindbending in its beauty....the architecture made me really happy...which is fortunate as I have decided to go to Morocco tomorrow. I found a travel companion with a penis and am feeling brave enough to check it out. I've been told repeatedly that they love round, fair blondes with blue eyes but will probably only hiss and catcall.. So apparently Morocco is just a really overgrown construction site...right.....I am very grateful to have a fake fiance for the trip. I spent the rest of the day puttering around and happily munching on dirt cheap super yummy falafel. Granada's Moorish influence is still alive and kicking which means bitchin Arabic food. Lucky me....for some reason that also mean tons of dreadies..they are seriously everywhere. I suppose its the lure of hash, but I honestly haven't had this much close proximity to hippies since Boulder. I went to the Mirador de San Nicolas to watch the sun set behind the Alhambra with the Sierra Nevada looming in the distance, which is as beautiful as it sounds. Just subtract the horrible bongo soundtrack and the all pervasive scent of patchouli and it would be heaven. Bloody hippies

Oh dear god, I am hungover mess

Seville is beautiful, from what I can determine through the pouring rain. I spent much of yesterday trying to snag a hostel bed, which due to half semester break for what seems like all American study abroad students, was consequently impossible. Luckily the hostel owners let me sleep on the couch in the TV room, and frankly it was cleaner, more comfortable and more private than much of the accomadation I have paid double for. My hostel insta-friend and I spent a bit of time slogging it out in the pouring rain to see the city's beautiful cathedral, but all was well and chummy and warm in the tapas cafe we sought refuge in after. It was run by the sweetest married couple who chatted us up and stuffed us full of Rioja and lovely warm tapas. A bit more sightseeing, a nap and shower and then out to find some evening entertainment (are you seeing a pattern here?). We had heard of some happening areas in town and set off to discover them. 1 hour in the pouring rain later and we were still walking in circles.....most frustrating (and damp) evening ever. After our sodden goose chase we returned to the neighborhood by our hostel and happily sat down to a few liquid consumables. Jump forward like 4 hours later and my companion asks what time i think it is....i say 3...possibly. Wrong. Try 5:45. Shit. We stumble back to the hostel, me to my comfy little couch. Today I have spent much of the day trying to aquire the will to catch my bus to Granada. For some reason public transportation with a rancid hangover doesn't hold much appeal, go figure. So while last night may have been a bit of a stupid endevour, I now know the most important phrase in all of Spanish. Vodka con zumo de l'arranha por favore. Vodka and orange juice please.....

Let's do the accomadations shuffle again

I left Lagos in the pouring rain, only to reach Seville in the pouring rain. I have taken the same bus as two of my fellow Rising Cockers (god that needs to be the name of a sports team) and we set off to find a place to sleep. One of my compatriots has wisely booked ahead, but I, of course am travelling on faith and the seat of my pants. We arrive to find that there is one bed. One bed, two people. Right. The other bedless fellow is a slightly, okay very, anxious middle aged man who has been worrying about this whole homeless thing for much of the night and day at this point. I offer him the bed, confident that I can scam someplace else to sleep, as the whole thing seems to be making him supremely nervous. He defers and it goes to the coin toss. As head and tails is a little confusing on the euro, I go with "little man side". Sweet. I love the little man. I drop off my bags and, gracious even in victory, offer to walk the other rising cocker (see I can't stop saying it) to his pension on the other side of town. After dropping him off at this sad little pension (thank you, thank you little man) and eating yet another ham and cheese toast, its off for a bit of exploring and grocery store locating. One bottle of wine, a bit of cheese and , yes you guessed it, ham later and I'm off to try and find some evening activites. I am accompinied by a hostel insta-friend and his hostel insta friend and set down for some wine and tapas. Oh, some friendly advice for ya, patatas con aoli is not fries with a bit of mayo, as i had supposed, but rather a giant plate of the gloppiest potato salad ever created. I mean I have a serious mayo fixation, but this is even a bit much, even for me. It is less a salad than a condiment. After our diasatorous culinary experiment we end up in a strange little salsa club filled with teenagers. They may be my little brothers age...but holy shit can they cut a rug. Add in some vodka and fanta, which is always what arrives when you ask for vodka orange and the night seems to be picking up. One unscroupulous taxi driver and an uneccesary round the city tour later and we find our self at this little flamenco club stuffed with locals. The most interesting sight of the evening: a group of very straight laced, and straight I'm assuming, middle aged men dancing flamenco together. No one takes notice, it just seems like an average evening out after work for them all. I'm thinking this would probably not be kosher in much of middle america, but that's just a guess.

Sand Fleas are gross

As you may have gathered, I have picked up a few traveling mates in my short time in Portugal, Alice and Frosty, the Aussies and Jose, the birthday boy. We all headed to Lagos, a very chill little beach town on the southern coast of Portugal, with a very popular hostel called the rising cock, charming eh? We arrived late in the evening only to begin drinking pretty much immediately. Aparently the cock is a bit of a party hostel and as far as I can figure the days are spent in either sun-filled sloth on the beach or, in case of a rain, which by the way has been persistently stalking me around Portugal, movies on the giant flat screen in the common room to be followed by general drunken debauchery at the 3 monkeys bar, conviently located mere steps away from the hostel. Well sauced within literally minutes of our arrival, we spend the next day lounged on the beach drinking Calimocho, a spanish drink of coca cola and red wine. Seriously, it's way better than it sounds. Apart from the sand fleas that are making the sand shudder like its breathing and a poor albatross that decided to commit half succsessfull kamikaze suicide by flying headlong into a wall and then limping about all gimped up without succesfully managing to die, it's a perfectly lovely day. Well maybe slightly marred by the fact that I have forgotten my swimsuit at my friend's house in Italy, so I spend the day chilling in a tank top and my underwear- trust me it's a real flattering look. Though it is nice to swim in the ocean, in basically November, without fear of hypothermia. After some red wine fueled soul searching conversations (what am I, a college freshman?) we head back to the hostel to pre-drink and improvise costumes before heading out to drink some more at the Halloween party the bar is having. Let's just say a backpacker cannot come up with much ( i have like 4 shirts...what the hell am i gonna wear for a costume) so i went with a slightly trashy play on words, that was so wortht it for the 4 free shots it got me. I am one of the tamer drinkers at the hostel, imagine that, so much so that some kids end up staying on like three weeks , operating in some sort of sun and alcohol induced fog. Halloween is a riotous blur as always and literally the whole hostel spends the next day recooperating on the couch watching terrible American comedies. The owners' mother, an incredibly sweet portugese (by way of Connecticut, long story) woman who insists everyone call her mama, takes pity on our booze addled bodies and decides a giant pot of homemade soup is in order. I can see why people get stuck here

Give me a couple months and I will have an ass of Steel...

Yesterday a few of us dragged our hungover little bodies to Cintra, a charming little medievil town a short train ride outside of Lisbon. The Moorish castel perched high atop a hill is probably its main attraction, but we instead opted for the Quinta Da Regaleira, an obscenely overdecorated estate located in vast garden grounds with a slightly insane metaphysical subtext. There are beutiful palaces and castles and churches all over this lovely town...and we pick our destination because we heard there are caves you can play in....childish much?....Brutal hangover aside (the Bario Llto plus extra hour of fun night...what can you expect) we spend the afternoon...well playing in caves and checking out this very bizarre Porugese man's ideas on interior decoration and the substantive and spiritual nature of metaphysical reality. I am not making this up...but I do suspect a very odd guide pamphlet translation my be the cause of some of this wierdness. That night we headed to a little club for yet more drinking and a little celebration for Jose's (a 25 year old architect from Mexico city) birthday, it apparently not having been celebrated sufficiently the evening before. I have made some Aussie friends, and their dedication to the drink is making my affinity for the stuff look like mere childs play. This evening we leave for Lagos, but I must say Lisbon is truly gorgeous and I will miss it. However, holy hills batman. I have spent days trekking about the city, (which really is all I have done, save for the Castelo se Sao Jorge, a medievil structure perched atop..you guessed it, another hill) just wandering around. But while I adore the location of the hostel, it's proximity neccisitates a near epic climb up to the Bario Alto. If I keep this up i will be able to crack walnuts with my ass....seriously....

Do not pour water on the floor....

Lisbon is amazing. It reminds me so much of San Francisco it's weird. There is a golden gate bridge, and I do mean a near exact replica, the whole city is incredibly hilly and cable cars are zipping everywhere. If San Francisco had an illegitimate half sister, it would be Lisbon. It made me feel very at home, except everyone kept insisting on speaking Portuguese to me, go figure. I arrived on a Friday, with no reservation of course, and soon (by soon, I mean after an exhausting 3 hour hike around the city with a 20 kilo pack strapped to my back) found there were no hostel beds in the city, at all. I ended up in this crappy pension run by a woman who spoke NO English, tried to rip me off, not once but twice (big ups to the lovely Lisbon Lounge worker who sorted that little mess for me), and had signs posted all over warning you not to pour water on the floor. Is this really an ever present problem, guests who pour water on the floor? But after this little snafu I happily settled in for 3 days in what has quickly become one of my favorite European cities. Then night life is amazing, totally unpretentious fun. The Barrio alto, a neighborhood atop the hills that looks kind of empty and nondescript during the day, throws open its doors and the streets fill with kids clutching 1 or 2 Euro drinks that are served in plastic cups, so that you can take them from bar to bar. Everyone is so chilled out, the local girls are dressed in jeans and t-shirts, a nice change of pace from the de riguer baby hooker gear sported in almost every other major European city, and everyone is having a great time. How much do I love it that my hostel is right in the middle of it all. It also happens to be within 50 meters of the miradour de Santa Catarina. This is a little park like overlook thing that everyone gathers to have a few beers and watch the sunset. Kids, old people, hippies, tourists, students. Everyone just sort of sits down and has a drink while the sun slowly descends behind the bridge and disappears into the river. It really is a truly lovely sight.....doesn't hurt that the beer is really cheap too....

Off to Lisbon...

My day in Porto was a good one I think....if anaimal based cholesterol hasn't totally saturated my synapses. I spent much of the day stalking various touristy type attractions, including the 250 stair climb to the top of the church tower. It was a lovely view, made all the more poignant when I realized that the screen covering the restoration work currently taking place on the facade featureed a 50 metre tall Pierce Brosnan looking all suavelike while shilling beer. I also tracked down THE sandwhich, the francesinha. Regaled by tales of its supremecy by my fellow travellers, I knew I must have one. It is a slice of white bread, topped by steak, chorizo, sausage and ham, topped by another slice of white bread with melted cheese on the whole thing. Coat the thing with a spicy tomato sauce and surround with chips, or freedom fries for all my republican friends, and you have a culinary masterpiece, or heartattack...I'm not sure which. After my comsumption of a menagerie's worth of animals, I set off to buy yet another scarf, which I have decided is the penultimate of all tourist purchases. It is cheap and lightweight while managing to add a bit of panache to my dreary backpacker garb. It is also a bit of European camoflage, as every single person from this continent appears not to leave the house without one artfully wound around thier neck. Impulse purchase needs sated I returned to the hostel to gather my new insta-friends for a bit of dinner at the restaraunt from the previous night. Even though we lacked a Portugese speaker, we feasted on various grilled meats (i literally had the best pork chop of my entire existence) and vihno verde for about 6 Euros a head. Then off to find some bars....both filled with the most disintrested locals ever. I spent yet another night hearing about how evil Bush is, which while in I'm in total agreement, I refuse to endure without argument or comment from a Brit...I take my Bush and raise you a Blair.....

I really like Port...a lot

Porto is beautiful. The city is coated in luscious architecture in various states of disintegration and granduer and home to dozens of port distelleries. I spent the day (ok, the afternoon, morning having come too soon after a night of heavy drinking) wandering around the city and tasting port. Have I mentioned that I really like port? The douro river meanders by the tasting rooms making for a truly lovely afternoon. This evening I went out to dinner with a few folks from the hostel, including a guy from Brazil. If I have learned one thing from travelling it is "let the guy who speaks the language order". We had an amazing meal, starting with some strange, but incredible tasting, soup of black beans, corn meal and god knows what parts of a little piggy and bacalhao, portugese salted cod, a local delicacy. Add in a bottle on vinho verde (Portugese green wine) and some carmelly pudding and it was amazing, all for 10 euro. Have I mentioned that Portugal is cheap as well as beautiful. Full and happy we returned to play cards and drink 1 euro bottles of wine....and more port. Have I mentioned that I really like port.

I'm back.......

I know, I know...as you all have reminded me (multiple times thankyou) I have been terribly remiss on this blogging thing. I sorta ended up glossing over Italy, which is unfortunate, as I had an unspeakably amazing time. But I solemnly swear to be a better blogger and citizen, and keep things up to date. You can also keep your eyes peeled for "Italy:The Lost Blog", sometime in the near future. As for my whereabouts, I have arrived in Porto Portugal after a heinous ryanair flight which included both violent turbulence and a vomiting child. But hey, what can you expect for 30 euro. I made my way to my hostel sometime after 11 PM but managed to drink enough that I'm sure this post will be rambly and incoherent. I immediatly enlisted a few fellow travellers and set off in the pouring rain to find a bar of some sort. We sat down to share a bottle of wine and soon the bartender had emerged behind the bar to play the guitar while a strangely bland looking middle aged man sang and played the keyboard. All in all it was a lovely evening and totally worth the thorough soaking I recieved. I then settled in at the hostel with a girl from Dublin and two of the hostel's owners, both Portugese guys in their twenties, to drink cheap beer and listen to how evil Bush is. I thought my hatred could go no deeper, be no more complete in its totality, but now that he is personally responsible for my having to listen to hours of European bitching about "The Bush" I am thinking of declaring a fatwa.

Ouzo is really kind of gross

So I managed to tear myself away from the islands and headed back to Athens. My accomadation for the night was a dank, windowless 12-bed dorm, nicknamed the dungeon, populated by myself and 9 boys. Boys smell. But I met two lads from the states who had been studying in Germany and we set off to find a bit to eat. I decided that ouzo was more important than food, and happily drank my foul little licourice drinks while they munched on various incarnations of lamb. After a bit of gelato, (Mmmmm chesnut gelato) which is ridiculously ubiquitous in any European tourist destination, we headed back to the hostel to round up a crew for a night out on the town. Yes I had gelato and ouzo for dinner, I am a vision of healthful choices. We managed to assemble a little multicultural army, 10 strong, and headed out to get our collective swerve on. Athens is really fun at night, but the woman tend to dress to resemble not all that classy callgirls, so the ladies of our group stood out a bit, all dressed in our rank backpack finery. That being said we slurped more ouzo, skittered around underdressed, got denied entry at various clubs (imagine that, we all looked so pretty) and generally caroused until our livers begged for mercy. I spent the morning trying to whip my booze addled little body into something resembling readiness so I could find the metro, than the bus, then the other bus that would take me to Patras to catch a ferry to Bari Italy. I will say it again. I am shit for orienteering. It literally took a football team's worth of helpful Greeks to get me to my intended destination. This included the man who explained that the very large busdriver was screaming at me because I was attempting to load my bags on the wrong side of the bus (never mind that the two sides connect into one space, but who am I to argue). In addition to all of this assorted transportation lovlieness, I will be soon be boarding a ferry for a fifteen hour little boat cruise to Italy. I must go find terrible wine to fortify myself.

I am 28, but I do not look that big

I managed to wander out last evening for a little bit of birthday celebratin' ( though I did do it under the guise of a tomato, having totally fried myself at the beach)..I ended up having the best night. The central square in Naxos town has a few little bar/clubs that all spill into this central area. I ended up at someplace called on the rocks (i think...?) that seemed to be the most packed. The first part of the evening was spent trying to ditch a very, very determined Greek man. However, It was totally worth it as when I told him it was my 28th birthday he looked at me incredulously and remarked "No...you don't look that big". I'm choosing to take it as a compliment. Ladies, a word of advice....never, ever let a Greek man buy you a drink if you are not interested in his company for the next several hours. As I was complimenting myself on my superior evasion tactics I heard the unmistakable Fargo-esque drawl of a fellow midwesterner...I asked where she was from, and sure enough, Minnesota (by way of Iraq, as she is on a 2 week leave). She ended up introducing me to some fellow travelers she had met, from Leeds UK. They were all very sweet and fun and I spent the rest of the evening swilling drinks with them, as well as a round of absinthe shots (thanks for the birthday money Grandma!)...They were all like 22 and assumed that it was my 23 or 24th birthday. After, like the fourth person told me I was almost old (25) now, I finally relented and revealed my true age. They all looked at me like I was old woman river, but then immediately told me they never would have guessed. (Did 28 seem ancient at 22...I guess so...) oh and i also had something on fire for my birthday shot...Hmm...I wonder why I felt like total shit all day? (literally all I did was sleep, and then sleep some more on the beach, but that counts as an activity right?) At some point the whole bar sang me Happy Birthday and I spent the wee hours of the morning frolicing in the Aegean with my new friends....not a bad 24th indeed......

Happy Birthday to Me...

Well...I've made it to 28 I suppose. I spent my b-day tooling around Naxos on a four wheeler (I am apparently not to be trusted with a scooter)..picture me: bright yellow ATV, dorky helmet trying to awkwardly zip aound in traffic ( its like my own little short bus)....after two days I sorta got used to the Greek schoolchildren heckling me....Today I went (at 20 kmph, not really zippy on hills, this thing) up into the mountains in central Naxos... Halki, Moni and Filoti...quaint little towns in the Tragea, the central olive Groves....There were bits of ruins here and there to walk through as well. As I was making my way back down the mountains to town, it began to rain, so I pulled over in Holki to sit in the cutest cafe and drink some espresso and wait for the storm to pass. I also got to sample some citron, a liquer made of the smashed leaves of the citron plant and apparently only available in Naxos....it was pretty good, but it smelled divine. I then made my way back down to the beaches and charred myself a bit more.....give it a few more days and I will turn into a giant freckle....I am a bit red...but I am officially the tannest I have ever been. I am soon off to my little pension room to feast on grilled cheese (i will finish this damn cheese if it kills me) and bacardi breezers....After which I am heading out to see what the clubs are like on this island ...(you really didn't think I was going to have a little patheti-sad little birthday night by myself in my room did you).

too much cheese....

Santorini really was amazing...I took to spending the days by the beach and the nights being fed bad tourist food and wine by my new friends...long laungorous naps filled the spaces in between. I actually made it out of Fira, to Oia, to catch the sunset on the last evening of my stay on the island. Oia, a bit more upscale than where I'm staying, is a gorgeous little collection of colorful little houses, perched on the edge of the caldera with a crumbling castle looking out to sea. It is truly beautiful. As I was poking around the shops, waiting for the sun to begin its descent into the ocean I stumbled upon an artisit's workshop. Strangely enough, I was pretty sure my parents had purchased some of his art a couple of years ago. I poked my head inside and decided that he had sold art in the north midwest of the USA, thus it was entirely possible one of his paintings was currently sitting at my childhood home. He invited me in for a cappucino, which he ran off to fetch. I got uncomfortable after 2 minute of various tourists gawking at me, I can't imagine how he manages to create some pretty amazing art work under such conditions. However he returned and we happily drank coffee and chain smoked and chatted about art, the US, Greece and traveling. He invited me back after the sunset for some wine, but as he had mentioned his fondness for younger women earlier in the conversation, I figured that probably not the wisest. Instead I returned to my campsite to pack and bid farewell to my "taverna friends". They played def leopard one last time for me....I arrived in Naxos early afternoon and found a place to stay, Pension Irene, reccomended by my guidebook. I got there after schlepping my pack from the port only to be told that it was full. They had room, but at pension Irene 2, just a short drive away. The owner heaved me and my pack in his car and we arrived at a very cute little place. Spotlessly clean, with a private bath, a kitchenette TV and airconditioning. I managed to talk 5 euros a night off the fee and metioned I wanted to rent a scooter. Without a word he loaded me on the back of his scooter and zipped me over to a rental place. After seeing my wobbly attempts on a scooter, the owner insisted I rent a quad, lest I get myself dead on my vacation. I set off only to soon realize I had no clue where I was. With the driving and the scooting I had got all turned around. For twenty terrible minutes I was certain I would have to abandon my stuff and start life anew, just me and my ATV. I did manage to find my hotel after incredible amounts of circleling and much cursing and set off to scope out the beaches. On my way back I stopped at the grocery store to pick up some rations. I had gotten oranges, some bread, a bit of cheese, some taziki and a few drinks. As my greek is nonexistant, i had muddled my way through at the deli counter. When I unwrapped my purchases I discoverd that my 6 slices of cheese was enough to feed a small nation of mice and my taziki was in fact spiced feta spread. Oops. I am literally swimming in cheese. At least i know what I'm having for breakfast tommorow...and lunch...and dinner....

Have I mentioned I love Greece

Santorini is amazing!!! I have never been to a more beautiful place in my life. The island is partly composed by this immense caldera ( a basiny bay type thing) and the villages ringing it are perched hundreds of meters above the pristine turqoise sea. I am staying in Fira, and have only managed to go out to eat, go out and lay on the beach. I am seriously capable of doing nothing else here. Friday night I went out for a bite to eat and some of the most hideous wine I have ever tasted. I'm sure Greek wine can be lovely, but the cheap shit makes Franzia look delectable. Again, I blew all of my wine points to early, and my intended nap stretched until 5 the next morning. (Mental note, stop doing that!). I spent all day Saturday stretched on the beach at Perissa, popping into the absolutely crystal clear ocean whenever my skin threatened to burst into flame. (I am so not a tanner, but dammit I will try). I managed to not get too drunk, too early that evening and went out to grab some drinks. The first bar I stopped in was a place called Murphy's, some psuedo Irish bar, thinking it wouldn't be too clubby (I think I am getting old, but oonsk oonsk music and dancing on tables is getting less and less appealing to me by the day) but I was so wrong. As I was jammed by the bar, trying to drink my 10 euro cocktail as some generic Euro dance music blared, and I was observing the assembled grinding crowd with growing hatred, the beefy bartenders began to rythmically clang some bell to the beat of the music, much to the delight of a bunch of hooting multilingual girls. The next thought that ran screaming through my head was, "Must. Get. Out. Of. Here. Now" I downed my drink and managed to find a bar spinning old funk and R&B with a special on Sangria...perfect. I managed to run into to two kids on my way out who invited me to another bar. One was a Greek Brit waiting tables for the summer- whose favorite singer is Robbie Williams (no joke, and he is a presumably herterosexual 24 year old man) and the other a bartending Santorini native, with a somewhat tenuous grasp on the English language and a penchant for def leopard. We hung out at the club till around closing then headed to one of the guy's apartment, which was right off the main strip with a caldera view, to drink some Heinekins and watch the sun rise over the ocean. They both made merciless fun of my accent, but we talked mad shit and got stumblebum drunk together. I managed to pour myself into my tent sometime in the morning, all I know is it was real, real bright out. I have spent today, totally wrecked, face down by the pool. I was literally incapable of even making it to the beach .... Some sun and many bottles of water have improved things considerably, and I'm off to the taverna where my new friend work. They promised me some more horrible cheap greek wine...who knows...maybe when it's free instead of cheap I'll start appreciating the stuff....

Yay bonine!!!

I think I am actually starting to feel like a traveler. I ran around ancient Athens yesterday, checking out the Agorra, the Acropolis and the Olympian temple to Zeus. I can't even really wrap my mind around how old everything is...The art and architecture is stunning, whatever the age. I returned to my hostel for a shower, though it is hard to feel really clean in grody shared showers, and to change. I took my crappy 3 Euro bottle of sweet Greek wine (which was truly terrible, but hey the price can't be beat) and sat in the Hostel coutyard to read mybook. Just as I was starting to feel a little overly alone, I struck up a conversation with some guys traveling from Calagry Canada and a London, by way of South Africa, doctor. We sat around drinking some beers and chatting. The Canadian lads were endearingly red- necky, all computer employed metal heads that grew up on ranches. Aparently Alberta Canada is very Wisconsin, if you like, and they spent all night teasing me I was from southern Alberta, given all the similarities our high school years shared. The Doc was a bit of a popmus twit, btu hey, I can talk with a shrub for a couple hour if I have nothing else to do....We then set-off to find a bar, with the Canadian insisting we check out the Hard Rock cafe (which was deserted, thank god). As we were leaving we spotted a girl also staying at our hostel, a hippie type with a violin slung over her back. One of the guys bought her a beer for a song, so to speak, and she played us the most amazing blue-grassy fiddle type stuff. She was a hippe from Maine who had spent the past two years hitching across the states and traveling around the world, busking as she goes. A tiny little pretty thing, she has spent years hitching and occasionally sleeping on park benches, which is either very ballsy or very stupid, I'm really not sure which. We all said our goodbyes, the guys heading off for some more late night carousing, and I returned for a couple of hours of sleep, as I had to get up super early to make my ferry to Santorini. I woke at 5:30, much to the chagrin of the Japanese girl sleeping under my bunk, and set off to make my way to the port. Luckily there was a very sweet girl setting out right as I was, so we navigated our way through Athens darkened labryinth streets together. I get so confused in these winding Greek alleys. Everything was deserted, save for the few late night straglers...the greeks don't even go out to the clubs until 12 or 1, which I am finding very hard time to just start gearing up.
We made it to the ferry and I was a bit worried, as my stomach started to go wombly the second I stepped on the boat. I figured I was a goner the second we started moving...one bonine later, however, and I was a new person. The ferry ride was beautiful and I spent much of it chatting with the girl I met at my hostel, an Australian medical student. Upon arrival to Santorini we seperated and I took a bus from the port to Fira, where i am staying at a campgraound. I have a two person canvas tent with a locking door, a tiled floor and two little cots. It's not incredibly glamorous but it has a pool, fairly cheap internet access and hot water 24-hours a day, and as it it only 13 euros a night for my own "room", I'm stoked. Santorini is gorgeous and I just took a dip in the pool . Thnings could be far, far worse......

Athens

Well I made it to Athens....after spending the night at the airport because the cheapest way I could find to Gatwick early in the morning cost as much as my ticket to Greece. I'm pretty positive that London could not get anymore expensive. On the bright side it has made everything in Athens seem like a bargain. I spent yesterday walking around Plaka, getting way too much food and wine in a central little taverna. It was way too touristy and spendy but totally worth it, as I got to watch the uber agressive waiters hustling for business. American sales folk have nothing on these guys. My new favorite phrase of broken english is you, pretty. please. Pleasantly wine-y I wondered around and drank another glass of wine as the sun was setting over the acropolis, after which I returned to my hotel for a nap while I still had my faculties intact. I stayed at the Amazon hotel, just off Syndgama square. It was a lovely little hotel, if way out of my price range, but I decided I wanted to have things set up for my first night away from the loving embrace of Jim and Tessa. My nap extended to all night, so I don 't think I will blow all of my wine points by mid-afternoon today. However, I feel my travel confidence rising by the second. I just checked in to a hostel located in Plaka and am about to leave to tour the acropolis and agaora. I bought my ferry ticket to Santorini for early next morning....We shall see if i can manage to make it without tossing my greek cookies so to speak....

I Love Sundays...

So Tessa and Jim had a party on Saturday and it was very fun...I spent most of the night talking British-American politics and playing video games, all with my beloved new companion cider....not bad at all... We were all a little bit wrecked the next day so Jim spent the day recovering while Tessa, her friend Nickola and I met up with some other friends at a little turkish breakfast place. Not able to stomach anything with feta in it, I had the the crouqe mounsieur...incongrous but tasty....The couple we met up with were very cool..Paul is an actor who is just starting to film his new role on a British soap opera, Hotel Babylon I believe, so he will probably be a bit famous by the time I see him again, which is wierd to consider. He was also played the lead on ABC's miniseries Hercules (which I have absolutely no memory of at all) and as he is dark, handsome and beefy, though improbably Scottish, he absolutely looks the role. His girlfirend Carmen is a west end actress/cabaret singer who ended up taking us to the King's Head, a bar with a jazz show every sunday in the basement. It was very informal with about 15 musicians getting up to play together in various configurations ( there were literally like 8 trumpet, sax and horn players) with people from the audience getiing up to sing. Carmen sang a few songs and just blew everyone else away...she has this amazing voice....A couple of glasses of red wine had effectively chased away the hangover so we spent all afternoon tucked in a corner of this smokey basement listening to jazz. I also heard the only Scat version of "Meet the Flinstones" I will every likely hear. It was sung by this very cool old guy, doing a Dr, Huxtable dance the whole time. After that show ended we transfered to another bar/eatery that had a Jazz band playing and got even more red wine and some snacks.... I'm pretty sure there hasn't been a better Sunday ever... This afternoon I am off for some more top-shopping (what can I say, I'm addicted) and to Selfridges, where Nichola, who is a make-up artist for Bobbi Brown, had offered to do my makeup..I'm sure it will look great, at least until the blast furnace known as the London Underground melts it all off....

Royalty wierds me out

So I spent most of Friday at Buckingham Palace. I was there for the changing of the guards (as well as many numbers of pushy German tourists shoving or stepping on me for a possible better view) as well as toured the Royal Mews, the Queen's Gallery and the state rooms at the palace itself. The weather was lovely, the grounds impressive and the palace sufficiently glitzy. However, I found myself distracted by the thought of all that accumulated wealth and the fact that British taxpayer’s foot the bill for their grand lifestyle (its official – I’m a geek). As I was strolling the bit of the grounds open to the public for the two months of the year the royal family is away in Scotland, I couldn't help tallying the cost of the grounds keeping, the guards and all the like for what is essentially an extended footpath for 6 people. It makes me feel all sex-pistoly inside, and I just paid an exorbitant admission charge, not a chunk of my yearly wages. But anyways...after that it was off to Carnaby Street to poke around until Jim and Tessa got off work. We met up at Shakespeare’s Head, a traditional little English pub and had a few pints. (Have I mentioned my growing love for Strongbow?....) We then went to this strange little restaurant in Soho called Garlic and Shots. There are two branches, one in London and one in Stockholm. They serve lots of...garlic and shots...and Swedish food. There's something a bit incongruous about eating garlic laced Swedish meatballs while drinking shots named things like "black death" and listening to American metal and punk. It was, however, totally yummy and loads of fun. After many shots and a bit of Murder City Devils we left in search of more pints, which is appearing to be a running theme during my stay in London. Tessa and Jim are having a few friends over this evening for a little get-together; so much of the day has been taken up with bits of cleaning interspersed between episodes of Footballer’s Wives. For those of you not familiar with the show, it the trashiest fun ever, as in totally wild plot lines combined with tawdry sex and dark little secrets. After watching a few episodes you kinda feel like you need a shower…but in a good way.

Gambling for Tots

After a day battling crowds at Oxford Street (woo-hoo Topshop) and the national gallery, I decided nothing could be really be better than drunkenly hurling balls at far away targets. After Jim and Tessa returned from work we headed off to the neighborhood ten pin/American bowling alley (which apparently means that there are other, far more English, numbers of pins to be bowling with, but I digress). I am so shit-poor at bowling, and several pints of Strongbow, my new favorite thing in the whole wide world, seemed to do nothing to help the situation. However the night did elicit one of my favorite new British discoveries. Anyone can gamble on slot machines (calling all apple-cheeked children) as long as the machines are “low-stakes”. Apparently if there is only a quid or two on the line, slots are considered an all-ages affair. Color me incredulous, but this means that acceptable high school pursuits include gambling, screwing (the age of consent is 16 here), smoking (16 as well) as well as drinking, (18 but spottily enforced). Poor kids. Where would the fun be without all the sneaking around?

Uber-tourist...

I am tired......Westminster Abbey, Parliament, Trafalgar Square, National Gallery and strolling along the Thames.....check. I almost feel like today was solely comprised of some lengthy tourist checklist. However, everything was beautiful, the weather lovely (am I in London?) and the collection of late 19th century art (in addition to everything else) at the national gallery was splendid. After I spent the day strolling among the teeming tourist masses, I ended up with Tessa at a little bar called Boogaloo for a pub quiz. I was told it was just an informal little trivia thing, mainly about movies and never really busy. Instead it was packed (apparently Pete Dougherty and Kate Moss have been spotted there recently-which seems to translate into hordes of fans of troubled rock star and coke-sniffing supermodels) and the movie trivia so mind-bendingly obscure and difficult all I could do was order another pint and hope no one noticed I had yet to contribute a correct answer to the team effort. Ah.....what won't cider fix.

Do heels go with muumuus?

Alright, it is certain. If I took up residence in the UK I would soon weigh 800 lbs. Everything is deep fried and served with a pint of lager. They even fry the bread at breakfast. As I am fairly sure I would eat a boot, so long as it had been dipped in batter and deep fat fried, this poses a bit of a problem. I realized I was in trouble when I was contemplating which of the six British candy bars I have sampled I liked best. I have been here four days. I should also point out that I am constantly corrected that they are chocolate bars, not candy bars, as apparently candy refers to a stripper's name, not foodstuffs. So my list of preferred chocolate, in descending order.

1) Lion bar ( a sort of unholy union of a hundred grand and a Twix bar
2) Crunchie (chocolate coated honeycomb stuff)
3) Time out ( honestly they are all sort of blurring together now, but I'm pretty sure I liked this one a lot)
4) Yorkie ( just a straight up chocolate bar, but ranked higher because its wrapper bears the slogans of "It's not for girls" and "Don't feed the birds" with a with a slash/no symbol through the woman from the restroom symbol, who's holding a purse no less.)
5) Flake ( a crumbly bumpy chocolate thing)
6) Twist ( the double bar bastard brother of the flake)

Unfortunately I reached a new low when I found my self wandering around Marks & Spencer grocery for an hour today, slightly drooling, unable to pick which new, weird, yummy thing I was to have for lunch. But I had spotted dick for dessert. Seriously.

I am such a tourist

I ran around the Victoria & Albert museum today and I can't even begin to describe how massive it is. I was there four or five hours and barely managed to scratch the surface. I did check out to a bunch of amazing Asian art, the Raphael cartoons and other assorted wonderfulness. They also had a special exhibition of mod fashions of the swinging sixties. The next time you see me I will be draped in Mary Quant and will answer only to dolly bird. After the museum I ran off to gawk at the great food halls of Harrods. Does it make me a weirdo that I super enjoy perusing foreign foodstuffs? Oh well..... After the novelty of £6 cucumbers and multiple types of guinea hens wore off I strolled to the great Egyptian hall. Color me jaded, but all it did was remind me of the Luxor in Vegas. Then, as the giant champagne truffle I purchased (Swiss and worth every pence) did little to appease my hunger, I wandered off in search of food, finally settling on Daquoise, a little Polish cafe in South Kensington. While the potato pancakes were pretty good, the Polish cherry vodka (made from potatoes I'm told) was amazing. In retrospect I should have just ordered three of the vodkas, (potatoes are potatoes right?) Though I'm sure my liver is grateful for my decision.

Mmmm...Donner Burgers

Tessa and I went to the Twelve Bar Club to see her friend's band, Punch Puppet, play. They are a melodic pop punk band (think Ramones, not Blink 182) and really, really fun. Before making our way to the club, we stopped off to a tiny kebob shop and grabbed something to soak up the surely forthcoming booze. I will now be forever obsessed with donner burgers with garlic sauce. Its strips of yummy, yummy lamb carved from one of those gyros cone thingies, coated with white, creamy, garlicky sauce and tossed into a bun. I am now addicted, end of story. On to the venue, which was the strangest little place I have ever seen a show at. The stage is super tiny, maybe 6' x9' with an old chimney (bearing a sign with "The Forge" 1635) jostling for room with the assorted amps. The audience area is super tiny, but has a balcony, which ends up cutting off the stage to odd effect. If you are on the ground floor you can only see the band from the knees down, upstairs from the knees up. We met up with some other friends of Tessa and drank way too many pints. I have also decided to start a lifetime love affair with strongbow cider, if I can stand the constant heckling for not just drinking lager with everyone else. After the pub closed at 12:30 ish we went to some club type place to go dance and drink way more. It was dirty, packed to the gills, hot as a blast furnace and had a 10£ (around $19) cover (but luckily the guys we were carousing with were on the list). However, they played indie rock dance stuff (weird I know, but I can't explain it any better), had 2£ rum and cokes and were open till 4AM. We had a total blast, smashed and boogieing; occasionally pausing to giggle at the guy so hammered he was cruising around the club clad only in his boxer briefs. We left at 4:30, after more lamb kabob, and poured ourselves onto the bus to get back home. On the coach, two girls were screaming at a pair of blokes (see how British I am) until one of the chicks straight drop kicked him (seriously) through the open doors, finally flinging her cocktail (which she somehow had on the bus) after him. I awoke disoriented, but happy, and tasting of liquor and lamb.

London Calling

So...I made it to not-so-sunny London and am running around with my friend Tessa working off jet lag and a smidge bit of a lingering hangover. I'm pretty sure port is not designed to be consumed by the bottle, but eh....The flight was a bit brutal, but softened by many, many tiny bottles of airplane wine of questionable quality. A bit groggy, I managed to locate my lost luggage, master the intricacies of international calling, navigate the tube and lug my stupidly heavy backpack around. I stopped at Tessa's work, at a small music publishing, company, then hung out at a pub, called the Prince Albert -----(something I cant' recall) until she got off. We then took off to her flat, in the Finsbury park area, which is knee deep in arsenal country for you football buffs. After a whole night of chatting, video games and heavy port consumption we manage to get up at 4 pm or so for a proper English breakfast. While I think all we accomplished was bathing and eating so far today, we are about to head off to the local pub for a pint, then on to a show where a friend of Tessa's s punk band is playing. After that it will be on to the indie disco (?) which I am ever so curious about. I am already having a smashing time, but will someone explain why the British think that a plate of beans with your breakfast is a clever idea after a night of drinking?

(Previously posted in an earlier incarnation on myspace @ 19:30 09/02/2006)