A few comments I received today jolted me from my post-vacation haze (and by haze, I mean severe depression) and reminded me that oh, hey, that’s right – I have a blog. And possibly even one or two readers left.
So, Greece. (Insert longing sigh here, meant to indicate that life is just so tough when you only go to a place for eight days as opposed to your usual two months and then you’re forced to go back to your boring, regular life and New York won’t even cut you a break because, 100 degrees, what the fuck.)
First and foremost, I gained eighty pounds. My grandmother can cook and no matter how often you clutch your rapidly-spreading thighs and say “Look what you’ve done to me, woman!” she will continue to fill your plate with fattening Greek specialties (while she, capping out at around 100 pounds, eats only fresh fish with a few drops of olive oil – her stomach is sensitive). All the while she will tell you and your boyfriend that you both look “poli theen” (translation: too thin) which will make you think, “well in that case I guess I will eat another piece of meat pie; don’t want to end up looking like Ellen Pompeo, that’s for sure.” By the end of your inadvertent five-course meal, all the energy you can muster will only get you from the table to the couch to watch some European MTV (they show videos, it’s kind of awesome). The next day, your new bikini will not fit properly.
The days were carbon copies of each other. Which is a good thing when each day is perfect. The Boy and I would wake up around eleven, go downstairs for a bowl of Cereal You Can Only Buy In Europe Which You Will Fucking Crave When You Return Home (shout-out to Nestle Clusters), and then we’d head to the beach.
Unfortunately, the Boy and I were not satisfied with the little beach in the village. Too rocky. Mind you, I have been going to this beach since I was less than a year old but suddenly the Boy mentioned the abundance of rocks along the shoreline and I was all “you’re right! What the fuck! Are we supposed to, like, wear water shoes to get over those things or something? We’re not fucking European tourists, jesus.”
Instead we’d hike 45 minutes over death-defying cliffs to get to a white-sand beach with approximately no rocks. The only sneakers I had packed were low-top converse that lacked the support and traction of hiking boots, which one might deem preferable – if not entirely necessary – while HIKING OVER CLIFFS. Also, the first time we went I was wearing a short, cute little white skirt which is no longer white or cute seeing as it IS NOW DIRT BROWN and there is a HUGE RIP IN THE SIDE FROM WHEN IT GOT CAUGHT ON A PRICKLY FUCKING BUSH.
The white sand beach, however, was worth it. We’d rent our sunbeds from the cross-eyed man who, inevitably, came back five times over the course of the day to ask us to pay and five times we’d have to search for our receipt to prove we HAD paid and five times he’d say “I am sorry” in English and then mutter “jerks” in Greek while walking away which made me feel smug because, ha, I may look like your typical pasty American tourist but I speak Greek, asshole.
I’d read some trashy chick-lit novel with a hot pink cover and over-thirty loveless heroine while the Boy would read something historical and important, like the biography of Truman because that bastard always has to show me up. Eventually we’d get too hot – it tends to happen when the sun is approximately only 10 feet from the earth – and take a dip in the Ionian Sea, which is more like bathwater than it is cool & refreshing, but it sure is beautiful. Once I tried to be all sexy & naughty and convince the Boy to have sex with me while we were taking a dip. He looked at me, rolled his eyes, said “that’s gross, there are kids in the water, Clink” and then, “I’m hungry.” Stupid Cosmo, UK edition and their stupid “Spice Up Your Relationship!” tips.
We’d go back to the house in the early evening and that’s when the feeding would begin. We wouldn’t be able to move again until much later, when we’d waddle down to the “town” (read: approximately 5 restaurants and 1 mini-market lining the beach) for a few drinks. Afterwards we’d sit on the sunbeds and make out under the stars (you forget stars exist when you’re in New York), while discussing what each of us will have to teach our kids because the other sucks at it (Him: “The value of history and decent literature, obviously” and me: “How to tie their shoes, for the love of god why do you still do the double-loop thing?”).
And that was it, mostly. And it was bliss, mostly.
(The non-bliss? Well there were raging fires two nights in a row up on the mountain that scared the bejeezus out of the Boy & me because they looked like they were going to engulf the whole island, but my grandmother assured us “Eet’s normal. Go to sleep.” Also, my uncle died last summer and the house is just so empty without him. I kept waiting for him to walk through the door and make a joke about Greece not having any good chicken fingers - he used to own a diner in the States, the man knows from good chicken fingers.)
The Boy fell in love with the motherland, which is good seeing as the Food Nazi (codename: Grandma) insists that he return every year from now on. Those two got along swimmingly to the point that at the end of the trip they even had inside jokes that I was not privy to. I felt like a third wheel.
Oh, and I am no longer afraid to fly. No, let me clarify that: I am no longer afraid to fly so long as I have three glasses of wine (and a Greek Mac from McDonalds, because obviously all that grease tends to absorb fear) before boarding the plane and at least three after take-off.
Whenever people hear that I am afraid to fly they caution against getting too drunk on the plane because it is widely believed that alcohol heightens your emotions and therefore could possibly lead to a panic attack in-flight. To that I say – RUBBISH! I was so wasted on the 10-hour flight back to New York that I took 108 digital photos of me and the Boy. The Boy, however, was asleep during our little impromptu photo session. Thus, there’s a photo of me licking his face, of me picking his nose, of me pretending to go down on him…
Ok. On second thought, maybe I should not be allowed to fly drunk. The nice British fellow who picked up my camera from the aisle when I dropped it while taking a photo of me sticking my tongue in the Boy’s ear, should’ve taken the opportunity to confiscate it, for the love of God.
So, anyway. Greece. (Insert another longing sigh here, in lieu of a suitable conclusion because I’m hungry now and may actually go get some Greek food from the diner. I’m really good at eating my feelings, apparently.)
