I apologize for the hugely tardy nature of this blog – shit has been INTENSE on the MV in recent days since we sailed into off into the smog… I mean sunset of Casablanca. It’s been like a page out of some cheesy teen Euro trip novel with lying and intrigue and a ball! Yep, we have a ball. It’s called the Med-Summer Night’s Dream and it’s the final culmination of our two months of fun, friendship, poor academic habits, and questionable safety decisions in foreign countries. Yes we’ll be celebrating like royalty not only at a seated dinner of filet mignon but also with a grand total of two – count them – TWO drinks (beer and wine only, of course) for the entirety of the night. For you math whizzes out there, that averages out at a staggering one half drink per hour if you count the dinner and following dance. I suspect some rowdiness will be occurring on the 7th deck between the ping-pong table and baby pool if you know what I mean.
In other news, oh hey we went to Morocco. And it seems like an eternity ago, already. Once you set foot through the gangway on the last day in port, settle into your cozy cabin and unpack all of your goodies, the memories you made just moments ago seem to hurtle away like the wake following the MV. How can you be nostalgic for a chapter of your life that has literally just closed? It’s a strange feeling, but more than anything I feel like this summer has been a movie or a trip to a really authentic Mediterranean Epcot, or something I experienced through pictures or stories from a friend. I can’t believe it happened to me. And that it’s over. But I’ll leave the tears and waxing poetic for the next post. Now is the time to savor these last breaths of salty Atlantic air, pop a few more Meclizines for old times, and reflect on what incredible adventures we’ve had. Most recently, our trip into the strange and fantastical land of Morocco.
It was magical. In every way. There couldn’t have been a better way to bring this whirlwind to a close. When you picture foreign countries in your head, its natural to have a slightly romanticized image of what they might look like if you ever saw them before your own eyes. For instance, the whitewashed buildings set starkly against a perfectly cerulean sky I imagined of Greece were there, but not quite as striking as I’d hoped. But as I hopped out of the taxi in front of the main square in Marrakech, it felt like Morocco. Exactly as I imagined it to be. There really were dudes throwing monkeys on your head, snake charmers playing entrancing tunes on their flutes and women accosting your hands trying to give you cheap henna tattoos. The narrow streets around the main square were a labyrinth of sights and smells: the aroma of saffron swirling in from apartment windows and the sound of donkey-led wheelbarrows click-clacking with their daily deliveries.
I’ve begun to realize that most Mediterranean port cities are worthless after the unbeatable lineup of Civitavecchia, Athens (sorry), Alexandria and now Casablanca. So finally at the last port we learned from our mistakes and got out of Casablanca as quickly as possible, Marrakech or bust. Our mode of transportation had less character than the now-infamous Cairo station wagon road trip, but the decision to set up camp in Marrakech was a good one.
The recommended manner of accommodation in Morocco is the “riad,” which is essentially a small bed-and-breakfast with a few rooms that looks like nothing but a break in the stone wall from the outside. However, step inside and you’re transported to an opulent Arabic palace with a bright open-air quad packed with ornate tilework and lush greenery. I read somewhere that it’s customary for Muslim homes to be rudimentary from the outside as to not come off as ostentatious next to their neighbors’. However, all bets are off once within the four walls of the riad. Our beds were sprinkled with rose petals and rooms adorned with chandeliers, antique furniture and lush bathrobes. Not bad digs for around 25 Euro per night/per person. And we got to fill our bellies with a savory Moroccan breakfast served cheerily by a genuinely caring staff each day before whatever adventures awaited us.
And adventure we did. From popping bottles to scaling mountains, we conquered Morocco as only SASers can.
We shopped and shopped at the endless stalls of the souks that encircle the main square in the Old Town of Marrakech. Each turn of a corner and a new wonder awaited us. We brought silver snake bracelets, aromatic spices, hand-painted bowls, shimmering scarves, and even live animals (long story). And after a long day on the retail grind, we needed a little R&R. So seemingly all of the SASers in Marrakech flocked to the same local haunt to kick back. Oh it was casually the largest club in Africa – Pacha, a chain of nightclubs many of you might recognize from New York City. Although we’d been jaded from the endless scams and rip-offs of clubs we visited around the Mediterranean (cough Mykonos), this was our last chance to toast the summer. So we clenched our teeth through the expensive cover/cost of bottles and danced the night away at Africa’s largest club. L’chaim.
The remainder of days in Marrakech run together in my mind in a sea of bright colors, delicious earthy scents, and the melodic sounds that seem to fill every nook and cranny of Morocco. We took a full-day trip to the spectacular Atlas Mountains a few hours outside the city. Every minute of that van ride was worth the view we witnessed just steps from the parking lot. Some of the largest waterfalls in the area shimmer down into a canopy of fluffy greenery and rich red clay. And than we hiked. And hiked. And hiked. It was like nature’s StairMaster but with a sheer drop of hundreds of feet just beyond the tiny path. Our guide led us through slick rocky rivers and tiny slippery passages. After a mildly “Into The Wild”-eque experience where one friend and I got stranded on the side of a mountain (ask me personally for the full story – it’s quite dramatic), we reached the bottom. It seemed as though we’d tapped into the Rastafarian commune of North Africa. Eager young men danced and sang delightedly at the banks of the rapids that careen through the feet of the mountains. Marijuana leaves and the quintessential red/yellow/green/black color scheme adorned everything from tiny barges to tote tourists through the rapids and cozy restaurants tucked into the forests. We trotted across numerous rickety wooden bridges and peered up at the souring mountains and jungle-like scenery around us. It felt like Indonesia or Vietnam – worlds away from our friends haggling over jewelry and ashtrays in Marrakech.
I still don’t think I’ve gotten all of that Atlas Mountains mud off my shoes, but the experience was downright spiritual. We returned to humanity for a few more precious hours of freedom before setting off to sea the next day, for a blowout at our friends’ immense villa tucked somewhere in suburban Marrakech. The 10 or so SAS kids renting the place spared no expense to give us the best send-off party we ever could have dreamed of. Food and drink were plentiful, as were the stories traded and memories relived under the shimmering Moroccan stars. We didn’t even care when the power went out – Marrakech clearly couldn’t handle the wattage of our festivities. But we didn’t care. With our closest friends around, we shimmied with belly dancers, marveled at fire-blowers and celebrated the end of this insane ride.
What a unpleasant slap in the face to return to – final papers, exams, dragging ourselves away from the paradise known as the pool deck tanning area. We’d almost forgotten this was school. So we now put away our cameras and passport protectors for a few days and hunker down on academics. Talk has begun of first meals back, moving into new houses, and what fall semester has in store for us. To that I’d like to quote Jack Kerouac, whose generation-defining novel “On The Road” I finished just moments ago:
“What is the feeling when you’re driving away from people and they recede on the plain till you see their specks dispersing? –it’s the too-huge world vaulting us, and it’s good-by. But we lean forward to the next crazy venture beneath the skies.”
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
“i only travel to cairo by station wagon”
Thank you, Semester at Sea, I can now check something off my list of life goals to achieve before I die. I gazed at the Pyramids of Giza from atop a camel. I felt like I’d hopped into a cheesy Egypt postcard with my aviators and scarf around my head, and it was nothing short of spectacular.
But before and after my camel love fest, Egypt was a country full of surprises and will go down in history as one of the more unexpected and hilarious ports we’ve visited to date. I think all of us here on the MV shared the collective sentiment of indifference leading up to docking in Alexandria. I mean, what is there to do in Egypt other than see the Pyramids and buy some shit with hieroglyphics on it? Answer: a LOT more than I ignorantly thought. My mindset pre-port was basically, accomplish that huge bucket list element and leave the rest up to fate. Some of my friends took extravagant Semester at Sea-sponsored overnights to places with exotic names like Sharm el Sheikh and Abu Simbel, but considering I don’t particularly love being bossed around and kept on a tight schedule for five days while trekking through 120 degree heat, I opted to conquer Egypt on my own.
Well, that might have not been the greatest plan. Prior to beginning Semester at Sea, I decided to book very few pre-planned trips because I had no idea what my mood at the time would be and whom I’d want to travel with. (In other words, I love doing things sporadically and last-minute.) The two day-trips I did end up on (Montenegro and Delphi) were, in all honesty, a waste of time and money and painfully boring. So, up to this point, I was more than happy I didn’t get cornered into embarking on some $900 mammoth of a trip in any of the countries and getting separated from my friends and loosing out on sharing all those memories with them. But then as Greece and Turkey came and passed, it seemed like EVERYONE was abuzz about their upcoming Egyptian SAS journeys. “There is absolutely no way I’m taking those sketchy trains or that eating questionable food without professional supervision and guidance!” Shit.
Well, the four of us who did not haul ass onto buses at 8AM that first day in Alexandria embarked on probably the most hysterically poorly planned half-assed tour of Egypt that has ever occurred. But, it was also one of the most memorable and amusing times of my life. I could have had pre-planned buffet dinners and more miserable coach rides. Instead, I had Hard Rock Café and a nearly three-hour road trip from Alexandria to Cairo in a circa 1978 station wagon cab. Upgrade or downgrade? You decide.
Let’s start from the beginning. Alexandria is eh, basically a worthless city. Founded by the Alexander the Great, Alexandria used to be arguably the seat of humanity and learning, with its famous library and pretty much every scholastic discovery of the era (philosophy, astronomy, geometry, etc.) taking place within its city limits. Cleopatra, the original bad bitch, also chose Alexandria to be the seat of her throne. Unfortunately, today Alex exists as a crowded poverty-ridden shadow of its former glory, with much of its ancient beauty destroyed and left in tattered ruins. Hence, we saw the library and got the hell out of there. And in style, I may add…
So, Cairo is around a 2 ½ hour train ride from Alexandria. In any Western city in the world we’d have made our way to the station, bought an overpriced ticket, hopped on, fallen asleep and woken up in Cairo.
But this is Africa.
And when you pay more than 6 American dollars total for a cab pretty much ANYWHERE you’re getting ripped off. So we’re hustling out of the port late for our train (the lure of 7th deck breakfast burritos over some creepy Egyptian variety too intoxicating to ignore) when a cab driver approaches us. After around three minutes of bargaining, we got him down to 15 bucks per person to take us ALL the way to Cairo. 15 bucks for three hours. I love Egypt? Not to mention his whip was the majestic aforementioned station wagon – so we all piled in for a good ole Egyptian family road trip. Without a doubt one of the best rides of my life. Peering out the window at the desert flying by, Drake’s new album in my ears (unrelated side note: if you haven’t listened to “Thank Me Later” at least eight times through yet I don’t want to know you), snuggling with my friend Meredith in the way-back, suddenly the Pyramids are visible in the distance over the right shoulder of the highway. So surreal.
We decided to settle in the heart of it all. A historic hotel in Giza called the Mena House that’s pretty much the Pyramids' next-door neighbor. It’s overwhelming in its Moorish opulence; it felt like sneaking a tour of some rich Arab dude’s palace. And then laying your head down to sleep in his luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets. Hence, we took full advantage of hotel food whose health code status we didn’t have to worry about, and a decadent pool with the Pyramids looming just feet away.
After getting over playing American dignitaries in the lobby of the Mena House, we finally got around to the obligatory reasons why were in Egypt. We saw a light show on the Pyramids at night, which was amazing for the first 15 minutes, and then provided the perfect soundtrack for a nap for the last 45 with its dry creepy 1950s history lecture. But the next day made up for any bad feelings as we headed out on our camelback journey.
Despite the seedy nature of the tour guides and stable-owners, we had more or less the time of our lives prancing around the Pyramids and the Sphinx held aloft by our furry friends. Seeing the Pyramids for the first time up-close in real life is truly an indescribable experience. Nothing, not even a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper, can make you feel as small as one of those three famed monstrosities. And camels are probably my new favorite animal – they are so adorably tall and awkward and don’t really know what to do with their limbs (flashback Katey circa 5th grade?) and run in the most hilariously weird way I’ve ever seen from an animal. And they’re surprisingly friendly and kind and let us love on them all day long (refer to my current Facebook default for pictorial evidence). Our camels’ names were Mickey Mouse, (which I changed to Flower) Mike Tyson (which I changed to Kush and then Camellionaire) and Moses (which stayed Moses).
That night we ventured into Cairo to sample a traditional Egyptian dinner. We ended up at the Hard Rock Café Cairo. Close enough? I have never been happier to eat chicken fingers and potato skins in my entire life. To my friends back home, be jealous of the food I ate in Italy. Do not be jealous of pretty much anything else from this summer (it’s less exciting and more horrifying when you find a piece of surprise meat in your rice in Egypt, believe me), and savor each and every normal sandwich or salad you put in your mouth in my honor please. After we finished basking in the glory of American food, we headed out to the city. Cairo is a surprisingly chic cosmopolitan destination, and we had fun traipsing through the lobbies of the Four Seasons and the Hyatt that line the shores of the famed Nile. After realizing we weren’t going to get much further than peering at the décor of those lobbies (bars/drinking in general are really just not part of Egyptian culture) we headed home. Content to play with giggly Egyptian kids in the back alleys of Giza and speak with some of the sweetest locals we’ve met, rather than hit a club for once.
Our time in Egypt was dwindling and we had to fit in the famous Egyptian Museum in Cairo before heading back to the MV. Can you say: second biggest letdown of the trip? It’s worth going for King Tut and the amazing creepiness of the mummy room where you can look at dudes like Ramses II preserved down to hair and eyelashes intact. But the other thousand or so square feet of the museum seriously sucks. I feel like everyone had a heavy dose of Ancient Egyptian history sometime in elementary school, and combined with that and seeing “The Mummy” a few times it’s hard not to be fascinated by this ancient culture. And I was so ready to delve into that museum in all of my nerdy glory. Such a disappointment. I felt like I was in a warehouse or some packrat’s garage sale. No air conditioning. Typewriter exhibit descriptions that haven’t been updated since ’38. Everything is just kind of arbitrarily shoved in with no rhyme or reason and absolutely nothing inspires you to daydream about the gods or pyramid builders or cool makeup. Whatever. I’ll live.
As fast as it began we were back on the MV. And Egypt was just a dusty sandy dream we re-lived when dumping out our shoes we wore to the Pyramids. It’s a place you have to see before you die. And, despite hitting the must-sees, I barely skimmed the surface. So I cannot wait to go back someday and see the side of Egypt the travel books overlook.
Can you believe it? The next port (Morocco) is our last and then after what promises to be around ten days of hell and finals at sea, I’ll be home to most of you (hi Mom) in Miami. It’s been a surreal ride. One last breath of snake charmers and monkeys and then back to reality.
But before and after my camel love fest, Egypt was a country full of surprises and will go down in history as one of the more unexpected and hilarious ports we’ve visited to date. I think all of us here on the MV shared the collective sentiment of indifference leading up to docking in Alexandria. I mean, what is there to do in Egypt other than see the Pyramids and buy some shit with hieroglyphics on it? Answer: a LOT more than I ignorantly thought. My mindset pre-port was basically, accomplish that huge bucket list element and leave the rest up to fate. Some of my friends took extravagant Semester at Sea-sponsored overnights to places with exotic names like Sharm el Sheikh and Abu Simbel, but considering I don’t particularly love being bossed around and kept on a tight schedule for five days while trekking through 120 degree heat, I opted to conquer Egypt on my own.
Well, that might have not been the greatest plan. Prior to beginning Semester at Sea, I decided to book very few pre-planned trips because I had no idea what my mood at the time would be and whom I’d want to travel with. (In other words, I love doing things sporadically and last-minute.) The two day-trips I did end up on (Montenegro and Delphi) were, in all honesty, a waste of time and money and painfully boring. So, up to this point, I was more than happy I didn’t get cornered into embarking on some $900 mammoth of a trip in any of the countries and getting separated from my friends and loosing out on sharing all those memories with them. But then as Greece and Turkey came and passed, it seemed like EVERYONE was abuzz about their upcoming Egyptian SAS journeys. “There is absolutely no way I’m taking those sketchy trains or that eating questionable food without professional supervision and guidance!” Shit.
Well, the four of us who did not haul ass onto buses at 8AM that first day in Alexandria embarked on probably the most hysterically poorly planned half-assed tour of Egypt that has ever occurred. But, it was also one of the most memorable and amusing times of my life. I could have had pre-planned buffet dinners and more miserable coach rides. Instead, I had Hard Rock Café and a nearly three-hour road trip from Alexandria to Cairo in a circa 1978 station wagon cab. Upgrade or downgrade? You decide.
Let’s start from the beginning. Alexandria is eh, basically a worthless city. Founded by the Alexander the Great, Alexandria used to be arguably the seat of humanity and learning, with its famous library and pretty much every scholastic discovery of the era (philosophy, astronomy, geometry, etc.) taking place within its city limits. Cleopatra, the original bad bitch, also chose Alexandria to be the seat of her throne. Unfortunately, today Alex exists as a crowded poverty-ridden shadow of its former glory, with much of its ancient beauty destroyed and left in tattered ruins. Hence, we saw the library and got the hell out of there. And in style, I may add…
So, Cairo is around a 2 ½ hour train ride from Alexandria. In any Western city in the world we’d have made our way to the station, bought an overpriced ticket, hopped on, fallen asleep and woken up in Cairo.
But this is Africa.
And when you pay more than 6 American dollars total for a cab pretty much ANYWHERE you’re getting ripped off. So we’re hustling out of the port late for our train (the lure of 7th deck breakfast burritos over some creepy Egyptian variety too intoxicating to ignore) when a cab driver approaches us. After around three minutes of bargaining, we got him down to 15 bucks per person to take us ALL the way to Cairo. 15 bucks for three hours. I love Egypt? Not to mention his whip was the majestic aforementioned station wagon – so we all piled in for a good ole Egyptian family road trip. Without a doubt one of the best rides of my life. Peering out the window at the desert flying by, Drake’s new album in my ears (unrelated side note: if you haven’t listened to “Thank Me Later” at least eight times through yet I don’t want to know you), snuggling with my friend Meredith in the way-back, suddenly the Pyramids are visible in the distance over the right shoulder of the highway. So surreal.
We decided to settle in the heart of it all. A historic hotel in Giza called the Mena House that’s pretty much the Pyramids' next-door neighbor. It’s overwhelming in its Moorish opulence; it felt like sneaking a tour of some rich Arab dude’s palace. And then laying your head down to sleep in his luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets. Hence, we took full advantage of hotel food whose health code status we didn’t have to worry about, and a decadent pool with the Pyramids looming just feet away.
After getting over playing American dignitaries in the lobby of the Mena House, we finally got around to the obligatory reasons why were in Egypt. We saw a light show on the Pyramids at night, which was amazing for the first 15 minutes, and then provided the perfect soundtrack for a nap for the last 45 with its dry creepy 1950s history lecture. But the next day made up for any bad feelings as we headed out on our camelback journey.
Despite the seedy nature of the tour guides and stable-owners, we had more or less the time of our lives prancing around the Pyramids and the Sphinx held aloft by our furry friends. Seeing the Pyramids for the first time up-close in real life is truly an indescribable experience. Nothing, not even a Midtown Manhattan skyscraper, can make you feel as small as one of those three famed monstrosities. And camels are probably my new favorite animal – they are so adorably tall and awkward and don’t really know what to do with their limbs (flashback Katey circa 5th grade?) and run in the most hilariously weird way I’ve ever seen from an animal. And they’re surprisingly friendly and kind and let us love on them all day long (refer to my current Facebook default for pictorial evidence). Our camels’ names were Mickey Mouse, (which I changed to Flower) Mike Tyson (which I changed to Kush and then Camellionaire) and Moses (which stayed Moses).
That night we ventured into Cairo to sample a traditional Egyptian dinner. We ended up at the Hard Rock Café Cairo. Close enough? I have never been happier to eat chicken fingers and potato skins in my entire life. To my friends back home, be jealous of the food I ate in Italy. Do not be jealous of pretty much anything else from this summer (it’s less exciting and more horrifying when you find a piece of surprise meat in your rice in Egypt, believe me), and savor each and every normal sandwich or salad you put in your mouth in my honor please. After we finished basking in the glory of American food, we headed out to the city. Cairo is a surprisingly chic cosmopolitan destination, and we had fun traipsing through the lobbies of the Four Seasons and the Hyatt that line the shores of the famed Nile. After realizing we weren’t going to get much further than peering at the décor of those lobbies (bars/drinking in general are really just not part of Egyptian culture) we headed home. Content to play with giggly Egyptian kids in the back alleys of Giza and speak with some of the sweetest locals we’ve met, rather than hit a club for once.
Our time in Egypt was dwindling and we had to fit in the famous Egyptian Museum in Cairo before heading back to the MV. Can you say: second biggest letdown of the trip? It’s worth going for King Tut and the amazing creepiness of the mummy room where you can look at dudes like Ramses II preserved down to hair and eyelashes intact. But the other thousand or so square feet of the museum seriously sucks. I feel like everyone had a heavy dose of Ancient Egyptian history sometime in elementary school, and combined with that and seeing “The Mummy” a few times it’s hard not to be fascinated by this ancient culture. And I was so ready to delve into that museum in all of my nerdy glory. Such a disappointment. I felt like I was in a warehouse or some packrat’s garage sale. No air conditioning. Typewriter exhibit descriptions that haven’t been updated since ’38. Everything is just kind of arbitrarily shoved in with no rhyme or reason and absolutely nothing inspires you to daydream about the gods or pyramid builders or cool makeup. Whatever. I’ll live.
As fast as it began we were back on the MV. And Egypt was just a dusty sandy dream we re-lived when dumping out our shoes we wore to the Pyramids. It’s a place you have to see before you die. And, despite hitting the must-sees, I barely skimmed the surface. So I cannot wait to go back someday and see the side of Egypt the travel books overlook.
Can you believe it? The next port (Morocco) is our last and then after what promises to be around ten days of hell and finals at sea, I’ll be home to most of you (hi Mom) in Miami. It’s been a surreal ride. One last breath of snake charmers and monkeys and then back to reality.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
how bazaar, how bazaar
To put it lightly, in the days before the MV docked in Istanbul I was kind of hating Semester at Sea. I was sniffling around the boat nursing my post-Greece plague and miserably realizing that Mykonos had drained all my money and had been maybe the biggest letdown of my life. All of the ports I’d been most looking forward to were behind me and I’d been wildly underwhelmed by one of them. I found myself daydreaming about getting back to school and moving into my new house when I was in self-induced quarantine in 4058 on that last day docked in Piraeus. And then it got even worse when I started reminiscing about Summer 2009 in New York City and how high of a bar it set for well, the rest of my life. These are DANGEROUS thoughts for someone who is supposed to be having the time of her life frolicking throughout the Mediterranean without a care in the world. And they needed to be alleviated.
Enter, Istanbul, Turkey. Without a doubt one of the world’s most fantastic cities. Praise Allah, I’m healthy thanks to meds purchased at a Turkish drugstore and back in the right mental state on this trip thanks to five amazing days.
Things were really laid back for Turkey because we got to use the MV as our hotel and didn’t need to worry about traveling outside the city limits for any reason. No more frantic train station nightmares or creepy hotels for a minute. And we had five whole days to explore the city – which I figured would be ample time.
Well, I could have stayed in Istanbul for another five months and probably not have been satisfied. I felt like I was cheating on Barcelona. It was fantastic and I adored every insane cab ride where we thought we were for sure going to die and every Turkish man who proposed to me. It is a truly unique city. When they say it’s where “East meets West” they aren’t kidding – the city is literally straddling the border between Europe and Asia. And it can’t really decide if it wants to be a Western country (hence, I saw a Subway a Dominos and a Starbucks) or an Arab country (hence, mosques on every corner next to the Dominos). Either way, it’s amazing. The skyline is peppered with the turrets and minarets of the mosques soaring above the massive urban sprawl of apartments and shopping districts, all reflecting off the inky Bosporus that bisects the city.
As for the touristy stuff, the Hagia Sophia is prettier than the Blue Mosque on the inside (don’t let the outside fool you). The Blue Mosque isn’t actually blue. And it smells like feet. Is that sacrilegious? Whatever, it’s the truth. The Topkapi Palace is awesome and on a beautiful expanse of lush land but it’s also really overcrowded and overwhelming. It seemed like every Saudi Arabian tourist in the world had decided to come see the artifacts housed in the Topkapi’s treasuries at the exact same moment as me, and at one instant I got quite literally stuck in a sweating sea of people screaming at each other in Arabic and grappling and shoving to catch a glimpse of the lock of Muhammed’s hair they have on display. Uncomfortable. I was really tempted to clip a lock of my Iranian friend Cameron’s beard and start waving it around and proclaiming I’d discovered another artifact of the Prophet to clear people out but again, I’m being sacrilegious. They also had some sick jewels and gold on display but everyone was just more concerned with the hair.
As for food, I’m still mourning the end of Italian cuisine so I haven’t really been satisfied with anything that isn’t drowned in olive oil and balsamic/somehow involving mozzarella but nonetheless, I wasn’t crazy about Turkish food. I just don’t like meat that much. I don’t think ANYONE likes meat as much as the Turks. They have meat served in every possible style from sandwich to kebab to fillet on literally every menu. And it all strangely tastes exactly the same. Being a vegetarian must feel really humiliating there. Also, side note: the corn the street vendors sell on every corner SUCKS so don’t eat it. As does the ice cream the dudes do tricks with – its consistency is really creepy and gummy. Again, don’t eat it.
Another classically Turkish delicacy we dabbled in was hookah. A lot of my friends have hookahs at school and sometime we’ll go to hookah bars when we’re bored (meaning, when no one can get in to Boardwalk we’ll go sulk at Oasis in the Grove) so I’ve had my share of experience. But I’d like to draw up an SAT-style comparison so you can understand what I’m about to say about real Turkish hookah tobacco. Marijuana is to Amsterdam as tobacco is to Istanbul. The shit is INTENSE. You can literally take four hits and feel so stoned you’ll be asking your waiter if they sprinkled a little hash in the shisha. And if you don’t drink enough water you’ll nearly puke from how light-headed you get. Insane.
One of the greatest things to do in Istanbul is to brave the insanity that is the Grand Bazaar. It’s the largest covered bazaar in the world and without a doubt one of the most famous. And infamous. Let’s play the, how many Turkish men can you attract offering you jewelry or scarves or lamps in less than 30 seconds standing in the middle of the walkway looking lost game. Answer: around 40. I’m not kidding. They flock around people who look like tourists (aka tall blondes who obviously aren’t Turkish) and try to butter you up and tell you how beautiful you are and almost physically shove you into their stores and stands. People called me Shakira and Britney Spears and Barbie like, every second. It was hilarious and overwhelming and amazing all at the same time. The bazaar is a massive maze of sensory overload and takes a good two full days to entirely explore. And if you spend more than five minutes deciding whether or not you want to buy something, or trying to haggle down the price, you start getting force-fed apple tea (which is delicious) until you say yes. And I’m not gonna lie, that shit works. Maybe they brew it with some sort of shopping aphrodisiac.
In between filling our bags with tea and Turkish delight and doing the Islam tour of Istanbul we enjoyed some surprisingly amazing nightlife. The swankiest clubs in the city (with names like Anjelique and Reina) line the Bosporus and have beautiful views of the navy blue river and the sparkling suspension bridge at night. They are laughably overpriced though, running around 20-30 bucks a shot. Our Turkish friend Ralfi who we know from Miami informed us that if you combined the net worth of everyone at Anjelique the night we were there, it would make up half the GDP of Turkey. Absurd. It makes South Beach look like penny beer night.
As our whirlwind visit to Istanbul came to a close, we had just a few hours on the last day to fill before returning to the boat. And there was only one way to properly end our time there. Turkish baths. They are just as weird and naked and sweaty as you would expect but also strangely relaxing. The baths are gender divided, which means you are scrubbed down by someone of your own sex. That’s right, dude on dude sudzing. I can only imagine the kind of Turkish men my guy friends got physical with. And of course I spotted the woman who I knew would be rubbing me down the minute I walked into the hot steam room of the bath – the biggest fattest woman with the tiniest little black bikini out of all of them. Clearly it was fate. She called me over almost immediately. Despite the creepy homoeroticism, if you go to Turkey you really have to get one. I felt so serene and relaxed all day afterwards, even in the heat and commotion of the Istanbul streets.
For the first time since Barcelona, I didn’t feel burnt out or ready to leave this country. As the MV pulled out of the port at sunset I was genuinely sad to leave Istanbul. Things get hotter, sandier and more Muslim as we head to Egypt next. I’ll be putting to use all the genie pants I bought in Istanbul because I’m pretty sure Alexandria and Cairo aren’t as lenient as the previous port when it comes to women and conservative dress. But I mean, I’m going to be riding camels and seeing the Pyramids – I’ll worry about my attire later.
Enter, Istanbul, Turkey. Without a doubt one of the world’s most fantastic cities. Praise Allah, I’m healthy thanks to meds purchased at a Turkish drugstore and back in the right mental state on this trip thanks to five amazing days.
Things were really laid back for Turkey because we got to use the MV as our hotel and didn’t need to worry about traveling outside the city limits for any reason. No more frantic train station nightmares or creepy hotels for a minute. And we had five whole days to explore the city – which I figured would be ample time.
Well, I could have stayed in Istanbul for another five months and probably not have been satisfied. I felt like I was cheating on Barcelona. It was fantastic and I adored every insane cab ride where we thought we were for sure going to die and every Turkish man who proposed to me. It is a truly unique city. When they say it’s where “East meets West” they aren’t kidding – the city is literally straddling the border between Europe and Asia. And it can’t really decide if it wants to be a Western country (hence, I saw a Subway a Dominos and a Starbucks) or an Arab country (hence, mosques on every corner next to the Dominos). Either way, it’s amazing. The skyline is peppered with the turrets and minarets of the mosques soaring above the massive urban sprawl of apartments and shopping districts, all reflecting off the inky Bosporus that bisects the city.
As for the touristy stuff, the Hagia Sophia is prettier than the Blue Mosque on the inside (don’t let the outside fool you). The Blue Mosque isn’t actually blue. And it smells like feet. Is that sacrilegious? Whatever, it’s the truth. The Topkapi Palace is awesome and on a beautiful expanse of lush land but it’s also really overcrowded and overwhelming. It seemed like every Saudi Arabian tourist in the world had decided to come see the artifacts housed in the Topkapi’s treasuries at the exact same moment as me, and at one instant I got quite literally stuck in a sweating sea of people screaming at each other in Arabic and grappling and shoving to catch a glimpse of the lock of Muhammed’s hair they have on display. Uncomfortable. I was really tempted to clip a lock of my Iranian friend Cameron’s beard and start waving it around and proclaiming I’d discovered another artifact of the Prophet to clear people out but again, I’m being sacrilegious. They also had some sick jewels and gold on display but everyone was just more concerned with the hair.
As for food, I’m still mourning the end of Italian cuisine so I haven’t really been satisfied with anything that isn’t drowned in olive oil and balsamic/somehow involving mozzarella but nonetheless, I wasn’t crazy about Turkish food. I just don’t like meat that much. I don’t think ANYONE likes meat as much as the Turks. They have meat served in every possible style from sandwich to kebab to fillet on literally every menu. And it all strangely tastes exactly the same. Being a vegetarian must feel really humiliating there. Also, side note: the corn the street vendors sell on every corner SUCKS so don’t eat it. As does the ice cream the dudes do tricks with – its consistency is really creepy and gummy. Again, don’t eat it.
Another classically Turkish delicacy we dabbled in was hookah. A lot of my friends have hookahs at school and sometime we’ll go to hookah bars when we’re bored (meaning, when no one can get in to Boardwalk we’ll go sulk at Oasis in the Grove) so I’ve had my share of experience. But I’d like to draw up an SAT-style comparison so you can understand what I’m about to say about real Turkish hookah tobacco. Marijuana is to Amsterdam as tobacco is to Istanbul. The shit is INTENSE. You can literally take four hits and feel so stoned you’ll be asking your waiter if they sprinkled a little hash in the shisha. And if you don’t drink enough water you’ll nearly puke from how light-headed you get. Insane.
One of the greatest things to do in Istanbul is to brave the insanity that is the Grand Bazaar. It’s the largest covered bazaar in the world and without a doubt one of the most famous. And infamous. Let’s play the, how many Turkish men can you attract offering you jewelry or scarves or lamps in less than 30 seconds standing in the middle of the walkway looking lost game. Answer: around 40. I’m not kidding. They flock around people who look like tourists (aka tall blondes who obviously aren’t Turkish) and try to butter you up and tell you how beautiful you are and almost physically shove you into their stores and stands. People called me Shakira and Britney Spears and Barbie like, every second. It was hilarious and overwhelming and amazing all at the same time. The bazaar is a massive maze of sensory overload and takes a good two full days to entirely explore. And if you spend more than five minutes deciding whether or not you want to buy something, or trying to haggle down the price, you start getting force-fed apple tea (which is delicious) until you say yes. And I’m not gonna lie, that shit works. Maybe they brew it with some sort of shopping aphrodisiac.
In between filling our bags with tea and Turkish delight and doing the Islam tour of Istanbul we enjoyed some surprisingly amazing nightlife. The swankiest clubs in the city (with names like Anjelique and Reina) line the Bosporus and have beautiful views of the navy blue river and the sparkling suspension bridge at night. They are laughably overpriced though, running around 20-30 bucks a shot. Our Turkish friend Ralfi who we know from Miami informed us that if you combined the net worth of everyone at Anjelique the night we were there, it would make up half the GDP of Turkey. Absurd. It makes South Beach look like penny beer night.
As our whirlwind visit to Istanbul came to a close, we had just a few hours on the last day to fill before returning to the boat. And there was only one way to properly end our time there. Turkish baths. They are just as weird and naked and sweaty as you would expect but also strangely relaxing. The baths are gender divided, which means you are scrubbed down by someone of your own sex. That’s right, dude on dude sudzing. I can only imagine the kind of Turkish men my guy friends got physical with. And of course I spotted the woman who I knew would be rubbing me down the minute I walked into the hot steam room of the bath – the biggest fattest woman with the tiniest little black bikini out of all of them. Clearly it was fate. She called me over almost immediately. Despite the creepy homoeroticism, if you go to Turkey you really have to get one. I felt so serene and relaxed all day afterwards, even in the heat and commotion of the Istanbul streets.
For the first time since Barcelona, I didn’t feel burnt out or ready to leave this country. As the MV pulled out of the port at sunset I was genuinely sad to leave Istanbul. Things get hotter, sandier and more Muslim as we head to Egypt next. I’ll be putting to use all the genie pants I bought in Istanbul because I’m pretty sure Alexandria and Cairo aren’t as lenient as the previous port when it comes to women and conservative dress. But I mean, I’m going to be riding camels and seeing the Pyramids – I’ll worry about my attire later.
Monday, July 19, 2010
got me feelin HELLAS good
Remember the first taste of Greece you got from the media? For some, it was “Mama Mia, or “The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.” For others, it could have been Michael Phelps’ super-low ass crack-grazing jammers at the 2004 Athens Olympics. All of the above are undeniably fantastic, but none mirror my experience in Greece. Other than the part about scantily clad men doing water sports. Europeans seem to get more and more naked with each passing port. But that’s beside the point. I would like to preface this blog entry by saying that I’ve been in bed with a nasal/throat thing and miserably watched three movies so far today in between overmedicating and over cough-dropping myself, so I’m not the happiest of campers at the moment. But I’ll try my hardest to not let that influence the tone of what I’m about to say.
That being said, I have three words: Greece. Is. Overrated.
Yep. I said it. And I’m sure there are hoards of you that starkly disagree with this statement but my time here was nothing short of underwhelming. Blah blah, Parthenon. Blah blah, Mykonos. By the end of it all we had to leave the islands a day earlier than originally planned because we ran out of money and out of motivation. But let’s go back to the beginning of things. Katey is still wide-eyed and dreaming of whitewashed buildings and the turquoise Aegean, ABBA on repeat in her head…
The MV docked in the port city of Piraeus, just a few minutes from Athens. After finalizing our plans for the finale of our stay in Greece – a two-day, two-night rage fest in the beautiful Greek island Mykonos, we hopped into our most lightweight sightseeing apparel and into the back of a cab. Piraeus is kind of ugly and industrial, but what port city isn’t? I couldn’t wait to get into the heart of Athens.
Well, Athens never got any prettier than Piraeus. To be honest, I couldn’t even discern when one ended and the other began. But we kept a good attitude because we were going to see the Acropolis! And it was going to be great!
Okay so the Acropolis was cool, we took the compulsory photos in front of the Parthenon and went on our way. We also ravenously ate a really delicious meal at a restaurant across the street, our first taste of Greek cuisine. And we could literally see the Parthenon from the window next to our table as we inhaled our gyros and moussaka: amazing. However, at this point in the day we realized there wasn’t much else to do in mighty Athena. We went to the Acropolis Museum and learned a little about the history of the structures. Peeped more ruins on display. The only things left on our agenda were the Temple of Zeus and the Olympic Park.
Well, chalk that up to a double-fail. We were too hot and lazy to pay for a ticket/find the entrance/even look for the entrance to Zeus, so we just took bootleg pictures of something I’m fairly confident wasn’t even the Temple (I mean every column looks the same, it was an honest mistake) through a fence. Sad.
And then we took an absurdly long/expensive cab ride to the Olympic Stadium. It was so exciting to see those huge white arches in real life! (Olympics nerd, sue me) But once we started getting closer, I began feeling a weird sense of déjà-vu. Wait, are we back in Atlanta? Is that the Georgia Dome/Phillips Arena/World Congress Center? Shit. All huge stadiums look the same. No matter what continent they’re on. But no it’s okay there’s for sure some sort of cool tour we can take! …Negative. The entire complex was shut down for the summer. So again, bootleg pictures through a fence. Waiting for a cab on the side of the highway for like 45 minutes. Getting stuck in sweaty Athens traffic.
The next day, everyone packed up their bags and headed to the ferry terminal to catch boats to the islands for the remainder of the trip. However, a group of my friends and I had decided to do a Semester at Sea day-trip to Delphi and put off Mykonos to the next day.
…And then all of them bailed except me and Cam. One by one they dropped like flies. 150 bucks down the tubes here, 150 bucks out the window there. The mesmerizing draw of what godly pleasures the islands surely had in store was too much in comparison to a scholastic endeavor. Whatever, I didn’t want to waste money. And it would be cool, right?
Wait, what’s Delphi? We thought it had something to do with the Battle of 300. Nope. We thought it was a city? Nope, ruins. Apparently there’s some oracle? Didn’t see it. But I did enjoy another fabulous awkward coach bus ride contorted into weird sleeping positions for a total of six hours. In all seriousness, though, Delphi was quite beautiful. The ruins of the city are up on a REALLY steep rocky mountain and the view from the top is stunning. And I got a nice leg workout, I guess.
And oh. Remember the nerds from my layover? Found them! They go on Semester at Sea-sponsored trips to ancient ruins. Overheard at the Temple of Apollo: “I brought this cookie to sacrifice to the Gods!”
FINALLY the day came for us to travel to Mykonos! We caught an early ferry, which I was picturing having about as much charm as the Staten Island Ferry (meaning: none, unless you’re into drunk guidos and hobos) but I was sorely mistaken. Ferries to the Greek islands are like a cross between airplanes, malls and cruise ships. They have super comfortable seats, TVs, actually edible food at the snack bar, and random duty-free shopping? Greece just can’t decide whether it wants to suck or not.
What happened next was so stereotypical I couldn’t even believe I wasn’t unknowingly starring in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2.” We arrived at the hotel: a quaint little place known as “Makis Place.” Perpetually smelling of fresh warm pita, clothespins hung on lines outside the tiny rooms stacked up on each other – white with blue shutters, of course. And there standing at the front desk, in all of his glory, was Mr. Makis. What followed was as an hour of Mr. Makis yelling at us for booking through a travel website, demanding his money, barking orders at his son, and then abruptly switching into jolly giggling Greek man, cracking jokes, giving us drinks, and chatting with friends on the phone as we waited impatiently in the hotel’s hot lobby. Kalimera?
We got the room. Mr. Makis got his money. And we moved on to the beach. Paradise Beach, to be specific, is a hotel/resort/camp ground/club monstrosity frequented by Europeans on holiday and of course, the perpetual swarm of SASers each and every summer. The atmosphere was chill and the water was beautiful, but honestly not up to the caliber of the beaches of Croatia or the Amalfi. Or even Miami, for that matter. Regardless, we had a grand time sipping Coronas in the sand and letting our Mediterranean tans deepen.
As the Aegean afternoon melted into night, it seemed everyone on the island was abuzz about a club called “Cavo Paradiso.” Mykonos is known as “the party island” and “the gay party capital of Europe,” so obviously we knew a crazy night was in our future.
One skinned knee, 35 euro cover and handful of outrageously overpriced drinks later, we realized that Mykonos might be the most overrated place in the world. It was like being back in South Beach but worse. Sure, Cavo had a cool tropical lagoon-y feel to it, and like, eight bars, but it was by no means the best club I’ve ever been to. Yes, I probably (and by probably I mean definitely) whined about how nightlife in Barcelona was better, and everything in Barcelona was better (I can’t shake the obsession), but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a good time in Mykonos. The little town is quaint and many of the people share the Makis brand of friendliness and larger-than-life Greek hilarity.
But now I’m back on the MV. And I spent my last day in Greece in bed. And I didn’t really care. It wasn’t that Greece was bad or I didn’t have a good time, but it didn’t have the culture of Spain. Or the food of Italy. Or the relaxation of Croatia. Nothing about Greece sparked my interest or curiosity or made me want to return for any length of time in the future. It was just, bleh. And I still don’t like olives or feta cheese. Sorry.
Well, I did forget to mention that my friend Krissy proudly wore a neon green tank top reading “Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go To Mykonos” and a “HELLAS” doo rag/swim cap thing out to Cavo that night. And I have to say that sight pretty much made up for all of the unexciting parts of Greece combined.
We only have one day off and then we arrive in Turkey! This pace just gets crazier and crazier. But I have a good feeling about Istanbul. I can’t wait to really immerse myself in the culture and get away from Euro vacation destinations and bad techno for a minute. Visions of doner kebabs, Turkish baths and turrets are dancing in my head.
That being said, I have three words: Greece. Is. Overrated.
Yep. I said it. And I’m sure there are hoards of you that starkly disagree with this statement but my time here was nothing short of underwhelming. Blah blah, Parthenon. Blah blah, Mykonos. By the end of it all we had to leave the islands a day earlier than originally planned because we ran out of money and out of motivation. But let’s go back to the beginning of things. Katey is still wide-eyed and dreaming of whitewashed buildings and the turquoise Aegean, ABBA on repeat in her head…
The MV docked in the port city of Piraeus, just a few minutes from Athens. After finalizing our plans for the finale of our stay in Greece – a two-day, two-night rage fest in the beautiful Greek island Mykonos, we hopped into our most lightweight sightseeing apparel and into the back of a cab. Piraeus is kind of ugly and industrial, but what port city isn’t? I couldn’t wait to get into the heart of Athens.
Well, Athens never got any prettier than Piraeus. To be honest, I couldn’t even discern when one ended and the other began. But we kept a good attitude because we were going to see the Acropolis! And it was going to be great!
Okay so the Acropolis was cool, we took the compulsory photos in front of the Parthenon and went on our way. We also ravenously ate a really delicious meal at a restaurant across the street, our first taste of Greek cuisine. And we could literally see the Parthenon from the window next to our table as we inhaled our gyros and moussaka: amazing. However, at this point in the day we realized there wasn’t much else to do in mighty Athena. We went to the Acropolis Museum and learned a little about the history of the structures. Peeped more ruins on display. The only things left on our agenda were the Temple of Zeus and the Olympic Park.
Well, chalk that up to a double-fail. We were too hot and lazy to pay for a ticket/find the entrance/even look for the entrance to Zeus, so we just took bootleg pictures of something I’m fairly confident wasn’t even the Temple (I mean every column looks the same, it was an honest mistake) through a fence. Sad.
And then we took an absurdly long/expensive cab ride to the Olympic Stadium. It was so exciting to see those huge white arches in real life! (Olympics nerd, sue me) But once we started getting closer, I began feeling a weird sense of déjà-vu. Wait, are we back in Atlanta? Is that the Georgia Dome/Phillips Arena/World Congress Center? Shit. All huge stadiums look the same. No matter what continent they’re on. But no it’s okay there’s for sure some sort of cool tour we can take! …Negative. The entire complex was shut down for the summer. So again, bootleg pictures through a fence. Waiting for a cab on the side of the highway for like 45 minutes. Getting stuck in sweaty Athens traffic.
The next day, everyone packed up their bags and headed to the ferry terminal to catch boats to the islands for the remainder of the trip. However, a group of my friends and I had decided to do a Semester at Sea day-trip to Delphi and put off Mykonos to the next day.
…And then all of them bailed except me and Cam. One by one they dropped like flies. 150 bucks down the tubes here, 150 bucks out the window there. The mesmerizing draw of what godly pleasures the islands surely had in store was too much in comparison to a scholastic endeavor. Whatever, I didn’t want to waste money. And it would be cool, right?
Wait, what’s Delphi? We thought it had something to do with the Battle of 300. Nope. We thought it was a city? Nope, ruins. Apparently there’s some oracle? Didn’t see it. But I did enjoy another fabulous awkward coach bus ride contorted into weird sleeping positions for a total of six hours. In all seriousness, though, Delphi was quite beautiful. The ruins of the city are up on a REALLY steep rocky mountain and the view from the top is stunning. And I got a nice leg workout, I guess.
And oh. Remember the nerds from my layover? Found them! They go on Semester at Sea-sponsored trips to ancient ruins. Overheard at the Temple of Apollo: “I brought this cookie to sacrifice to the Gods!”
FINALLY the day came for us to travel to Mykonos! We caught an early ferry, which I was picturing having about as much charm as the Staten Island Ferry (meaning: none, unless you’re into drunk guidos and hobos) but I was sorely mistaken. Ferries to the Greek islands are like a cross between airplanes, malls and cruise ships. They have super comfortable seats, TVs, actually edible food at the snack bar, and random duty-free shopping? Greece just can’t decide whether it wants to suck or not.
What happened next was so stereotypical I couldn’t even believe I wasn’t unknowingly starring in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2.” We arrived at the hotel: a quaint little place known as “Makis Place.” Perpetually smelling of fresh warm pita, clothespins hung on lines outside the tiny rooms stacked up on each other – white with blue shutters, of course. And there standing at the front desk, in all of his glory, was Mr. Makis. What followed was as an hour of Mr. Makis yelling at us for booking through a travel website, demanding his money, barking orders at his son, and then abruptly switching into jolly giggling Greek man, cracking jokes, giving us drinks, and chatting with friends on the phone as we waited impatiently in the hotel’s hot lobby. Kalimera?
We got the room. Mr. Makis got his money. And we moved on to the beach. Paradise Beach, to be specific, is a hotel/resort/camp ground/club monstrosity frequented by Europeans on holiday and of course, the perpetual swarm of SASers each and every summer. The atmosphere was chill and the water was beautiful, but honestly not up to the caliber of the beaches of Croatia or the Amalfi. Or even Miami, for that matter. Regardless, we had a grand time sipping Coronas in the sand and letting our Mediterranean tans deepen.
As the Aegean afternoon melted into night, it seemed everyone on the island was abuzz about a club called “Cavo Paradiso.” Mykonos is known as “the party island” and “the gay party capital of Europe,” so obviously we knew a crazy night was in our future.
One skinned knee, 35 euro cover and handful of outrageously overpriced drinks later, we realized that Mykonos might be the most overrated place in the world. It was like being back in South Beach but worse. Sure, Cavo had a cool tropical lagoon-y feel to it, and like, eight bars, but it was by no means the best club I’ve ever been to. Yes, I probably (and by probably I mean definitely) whined about how nightlife in Barcelona was better, and everything in Barcelona was better (I can’t shake the obsession), but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a good time in Mykonos. The little town is quaint and many of the people share the Makis brand of friendliness and larger-than-life Greek hilarity.
But now I’m back on the MV. And I spent my last day in Greece in bed. And I didn’t really care. It wasn’t that Greece was bad or I didn’t have a good time, but it didn’t have the culture of Spain. Or the food of Italy. Or the relaxation of Croatia. Nothing about Greece sparked my interest or curiosity or made me want to return for any length of time in the future. It was just, bleh. And I still don’t like olives or feta cheese. Sorry.
Well, I did forget to mention that my friend Krissy proudly wore a neon green tank top reading “Good Girls Go To Heaven, Bad Girls Go To Mykonos” and a “HELLAS” doo rag/swim cap thing out to Cavo that night. And I have to say that sight pretty much made up for all of the unexciting parts of Greece combined.
We only have one day off and then we arrive in Turkey! This pace just gets crazier and crazier. But I have a good feeling about Istanbul. I can’t wait to really immerse myself in the culture and get away from Euro vacation destinations and bad techno for a minute. Visions of doner kebabs, Turkish baths and turrets are dancing in my head.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
do the du
After the complete physiological drain of Italy, there could not have been a better port than Dubrovnik, Croatia. Clearly, Semester at Sea knows what they’re doing. In Italy I visited six cities, took too many trains to count, consumed more calories than I would ever like to know, took 8 zillion pictures of 97 monuments I don’t care about and spent an absurd amount of money. In Croatia, I laid on the beach. I drank a cocktail out of a plastic child’s pail at a bar called Fresh. I saw a festival. I slept in. I walked around windy cobblestone streets. I only tripped once. It was, in a word, glorious.
Croatia’s history is actually really interesting and almost startling when you think about how recently the break up of Yugoslavia/the whole Tito thing/the whole Kosovo thing/the whole Serbs being assholes and Croats being assholes and everyone brutally slaughtering each other thing took place. It was only 10-15 years ago that this all went down. But from the peaceful and almost sterile city of Dubrovnik, you would have absolutely no idea that these streets were once soaked with blood. Everything is very neat and timely and nothing is offensively loud or dirty. The people are generally friendly and calm, namely the cab drivers who roll around in Beamers, Benz’s and Bentleys (okay not Bentleys) and all strangely resemble former Eastern European hired assassins. I’m not kidding. How can a cab driver charge me 60 kuna (around 11 bucks) for a ride into the city and afford an impeccably maintained Mercedes with a navigational system? They’re so anal they won’t even let you eat gelato in the back for God’s sake.
But that’s enough about cabs. The city of Dubrovnik is unexpectedly wonderful. The short ride from the port to the city’s hub looks like any other upper-middle class suburb: strip-malls, grocery stores and then hey all of a sudden you drive by the most breathtaking view of the ocean you’ve ever seen. It’s like a living panoramic postcard; bookended by lush green islands and rocky cliffs, lazy topless Europeans sunning themselves on the rocky beaches hundreds of feet below. And then you reach the main gate of Dubrovnik’s Old Town (or is it Old City? I thought I heard it both ways but maybe I just sounded like an ignorant tool the whole time) and in the blink of an eye you’re at the most authentic Medieval Times you’ve ever seen. Or a really realistic movie set for a period piece about princesses and knights. Or Eastern European Disney World. There’s a moat and a drawbridge leading into the walled city. Like, a literal moat. The streets are devoid of cars and covered by super-slick stones; you can almost hear the sound of horse hooves click-clacking down the main drag. Alleyways seem to stack on top of themselves as you navigate up endless staircases winding their way up the mountain Old Town rests upon.
Every former SASer who went on a summer voyage will undoubtedly get nostalgic at hearing the next thing I’m about to say, because this particular spot has become a bit of a legend for those of us traveling onboard the good old MV. Climb the city’s biggest set of marbly stairs, past the charming cottage on your left hang-drying clothes next to the swing-set, and the endearing old woman selling lace. Continue up a windy passageway to a wooden sign that simply reads “Cold Drinks” with an arrow. Sounds innocuous enough. Duck into a tiny break in the stone wall and all of a sudden you’re on top of the world. Known adoringly as “The Cliff Bar” to most, this haunt is one of the gems of the city. Only a few tables and chairs in all, complete with shirtless hippie bartenders, the bar is teetering off one of Old Town’s famous cliffs (even more famously jumped off by many a fearless backpacker, myself not included) with possibly the most spectacular view one can take in while sipping a local draught.
Aside from drinking in weird places and out of childhood toys, my time in Croatia was highlighted by being in the water. The Mediterranean (the Adriatic, specifically, being the section of the Med in which Dubrovnik is situated) has a crazy high saline content so you feel like a pretzel for the rest of the day, but it is so worth it. As was our Euro techno-blaring speedboat ride to our snorkeling drop-off point. Despite the fact that the sights of snorkeling are limited to minnows and rocks, it’s incredible to swim out to the rocky shores of the islands surrounding Dubrovnik, climb the dusty stone pathways up to the tips of the mountains and see lovely Old Town from a birds-eye view.
Dubrovnik is relatively compact so it seemed nearly everyone within the city limits was keenly aware of the presence of Semester at Sea. The city’s handful of clubs were crawling with SASers every night. My favorite pick up line of the trip slurred by many an inebriated frat boy: “hey are you ladies SASers?” …The poor perplexed Croatian girls would just stare back and keep walking. And once the local eligible bachelors caught wind of the influx of American girls inhabiting clubs like Fuego, they arrived at the door in greasy tank-topped masses. Ah, Eastern Europe. Land of romance. Things got so bad that club owners began to put up signs reading “No Semester at Sea” because kids were breaking everything in their paths. And embarrassing themselves in the process. Even cab drivers would ask if we were traveling “to the Explorer” and then proceed to charge us more. And the local grocery store at the port sent SAS administration a letter thanking them for our business (clearly they neglected to mention it was entirely liquor purchases because everything else they sold was the creepy packaged food equivalent of Ikea). Semester at Sea: alienating ourselves from a new Mediterranean country every week.
However, as daylight came over the top deck of the MV, all mishaps from the night before were forgotten. We ventured on a Semester at Sea-sponsored tour to the tiny bordering country of Montenegro which was more sleeping in awkward positions on a coach bus than actually seeing sights, but beautiful nonetheless. I feel like this region of the word is quite unknown to many Americans who would rather take their Euro vacations in the Greek islands or the South of France. But the natural beauty here is outstanding. The food is a little weird and a bit too mystery meat for my taste but it works because I was in a bikini for the vast majority of the trip (and I’m still in mild post-traumatic shock from how much I ate in Italy). It’s also very inexpensive in a lot of ways. The local currency is the Kuna, which easily freaks you out because 100 of them is like 20 bucks – hence, after a few drinks you’re into the triple digits. But the exchange rate is good and it seems like the population is eager to give foreigners a deal and show off their beautiful little corner of the world.
On our last day we soaked up as much Croatian sun as we could handle at the Nikki Beach of Dubrovnik – EastWest. Finally escaping the oppressive hoards of SASers, we lounged all day on an outrageously comfortable “beach mattress” amongst many a cute European family. At Nikki we would have be forced to buy bottles and look fabulous and probably would have dropped a g by the end of the day. At EastWest we spent around 15 bucks for the mattress, water-bottled our own drinks, passed out, and they left us alone. Love Croatia.
Other highlights include a guest appearance by French Prime Minister Nicolas Sarkozy, not only spotted in the street amongst suited minions but also at the same restaurant as us one night. And it gets weirder – infamous tennis loudmouth John McEnroe was playing a random exhibition game in Dubrov and we saw him strolling around, tennis bag in hand, looking embarrassingly too old to be playing competitive tennis. Sarkozy and McEnroe? What a duo.
All in all, I took Croatia in as a breath of fresh air. I feel recharged and well slept and pleasantly crispy from my days lounging in the Mediterranean heat. The UV rays continue next as we hit Greece. Thanks to some intense political instability, Greece’s economy is a piece of shit and everyone seems to be freaking out over it. Hence, ferry strikes. Please, Zeus, let me get to Mykonos and not be stuck in grimy Athens for five days? Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Croatia’s history is actually really interesting and almost startling when you think about how recently the break up of Yugoslavia/the whole Tito thing/the whole Kosovo thing/the whole Serbs being assholes and Croats being assholes and everyone brutally slaughtering each other thing took place. It was only 10-15 years ago that this all went down. But from the peaceful and almost sterile city of Dubrovnik, you would have absolutely no idea that these streets were once soaked with blood. Everything is very neat and timely and nothing is offensively loud or dirty. The people are generally friendly and calm, namely the cab drivers who roll around in Beamers, Benz’s and Bentleys (okay not Bentleys) and all strangely resemble former Eastern European hired assassins. I’m not kidding. How can a cab driver charge me 60 kuna (around 11 bucks) for a ride into the city and afford an impeccably maintained Mercedes with a navigational system? They’re so anal they won’t even let you eat gelato in the back for God’s sake.
But that’s enough about cabs. The city of Dubrovnik is unexpectedly wonderful. The short ride from the port to the city’s hub looks like any other upper-middle class suburb: strip-malls, grocery stores and then hey all of a sudden you drive by the most breathtaking view of the ocean you’ve ever seen. It’s like a living panoramic postcard; bookended by lush green islands and rocky cliffs, lazy topless Europeans sunning themselves on the rocky beaches hundreds of feet below. And then you reach the main gate of Dubrovnik’s Old Town (or is it Old City? I thought I heard it both ways but maybe I just sounded like an ignorant tool the whole time) and in the blink of an eye you’re at the most authentic Medieval Times you’ve ever seen. Or a really realistic movie set for a period piece about princesses and knights. Or Eastern European Disney World. There’s a moat and a drawbridge leading into the walled city. Like, a literal moat. The streets are devoid of cars and covered by super-slick stones; you can almost hear the sound of horse hooves click-clacking down the main drag. Alleyways seem to stack on top of themselves as you navigate up endless staircases winding their way up the mountain Old Town rests upon.
Every former SASer who went on a summer voyage will undoubtedly get nostalgic at hearing the next thing I’m about to say, because this particular spot has become a bit of a legend for those of us traveling onboard the good old MV. Climb the city’s biggest set of marbly stairs, past the charming cottage on your left hang-drying clothes next to the swing-set, and the endearing old woman selling lace. Continue up a windy passageway to a wooden sign that simply reads “Cold Drinks” with an arrow. Sounds innocuous enough. Duck into a tiny break in the stone wall and all of a sudden you’re on top of the world. Known adoringly as “The Cliff Bar” to most, this haunt is one of the gems of the city. Only a few tables and chairs in all, complete with shirtless hippie bartenders, the bar is teetering off one of Old Town’s famous cliffs (even more famously jumped off by many a fearless backpacker, myself not included) with possibly the most spectacular view one can take in while sipping a local draught.
Aside from drinking in weird places and out of childhood toys, my time in Croatia was highlighted by being in the water. The Mediterranean (the Adriatic, specifically, being the section of the Med in which Dubrovnik is situated) has a crazy high saline content so you feel like a pretzel for the rest of the day, but it is so worth it. As was our Euro techno-blaring speedboat ride to our snorkeling drop-off point. Despite the fact that the sights of snorkeling are limited to minnows and rocks, it’s incredible to swim out to the rocky shores of the islands surrounding Dubrovnik, climb the dusty stone pathways up to the tips of the mountains and see lovely Old Town from a birds-eye view.
Dubrovnik is relatively compact so it seemed nearly everyone within the city limits was keenly aware of the presence of Semester at Sea. The city’s handful of clubs were crawling with SASers every night. My favorite pick up line of the trip slurred by many an inebriated frat boy: “hey are you ladies SASers?” …The poor perplexed Croatian girls would just stare back and keep walking. And once the local eligible bachelors caught wind of the influx of American girls inhabiting clubs like Fuego, they arrived at the door in greasy tank-topped masses. Ah, Eastern Europe. Land of romance. Things got so bad that club owners began to put up signs reading “No Semester at Sea” because kids were breaking everything in their paths. And embarrassing themselves in the process. Even cab drivers would ask if we were traveling “to the Explorer” and then proceed to charge us more. And the local grocery store at the port sent SAS administration a letter thanking them for our business (clearly they neglected to mention it was entirely liquor purchases because everything else they sold was the creepy packaged food equivalent of Ikea). Semester at Sea: alienating ourselves from a new Mediterranean country every week.
However, as daylight came over the top deck of the MV, all mishaps from the night before were forgotten. We ventured on a Semester at Sea-sponsored tour to the tiny bordering country of Montenegro which was more sleeping in awkward positions on a coach bus than actually seeing sights, but beautiful nonetheless. I feel like this region of the word is quite unknown to many Americans who would rather take their Euro vacations in the Greek islands or the South of France. But the natural beauty here is outstanding. The food is a little weird and a bit too mystery meat for my taste but it works because I was in a bikini for the vast majority of the trip (and I’m still in mild post-traumatic shock from how much I ate in Italy). It’s also very inexpensive in a lot of ways. The local currency is the Kuna, which easily freaks you out because 100 of them is like 20 bucks – hence, after a few drinks you’re into the triple digits. But the exchange rate is good and it seems like the population is eager to give foreigners a deal and show off their beautiful little corner of the world.
On our last day we soaked up as much Croatian sun as we could handle at the Nikki Beach of Dubrovnik – EastWest. Finally escaping the oppressive hoards of SASers, we lounged all day on an outrageously comfortable “beach mattress” amongst many a cute European family. At Nikki we would have be forced to buy bottles and look fabulous and probably would have dropped a g by the end of the day. At EastWest we spent around 15 bucks for the mattress, water-bottled our own drinks, passed out, and they left us alone. Love Croatia.
Other highlights include a guest appearance by French Prime Minister Nicolas Sarkozy, not only spotted in the street amongst suited minions but also at the same restaurant as us one night. And it gets weirder – infamous tennis loudmouth John McEnroe was playing a random exhibition game in Dubrov and we saw him strolling around, tennis bag in hand, looking embarrassingly too old to be playing competitive tennis. Sarkozy and McEnroe? What a duo.
All in all, I took Croatia in as a breath of fresh air. I feel recharged and well slept and pleasantly crispy from my days lounging in the Mediterranean heat. The UV rays continue next as we hit Greece. Thanks to some intense political instability, Greece’s economy is a piece of shit and everyone seems to be freaking out over it. Hence, ferry strikes. Please, Zeus, let me get to Mykonos and not be stuck in grimy Athens for five days? Keep your fingers crossed for me.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
"fireworks in my mouth": italia
I can’t explain how and why I fell so in love with Barcelona. And why heading into Italy I felt emotionally (and physically) hungover from my weird affair with the city. It could have been because it was my initial sweet taste of Europe. It was also a breeze because my 6-14 (does elementary school Spanish count?) years of Spanish made me more than competent at finding my way around and carrying on polite conversations. Perhaps it was due to the city’s laid-back artsy bohemian atmosphere and style that mirrors my own. Or it might just have been because Barcelona wasn’t too intimidating or too hot or too touristy or too overwhelming.
Italy, in contrast, was all of these things. One week and I can honestly say I might vomit if I have to put another hunk of mozzarella cheese in my mouth (okay fine, that’s a flat out lie). Or if I see another Midwesterner with a fanny pack. I can’t speak a word of Italian beyond grazi/prego and this seemed to offend close to everyone I spoke to despite my best efforts. Not going to lie, the vast majority of Italians I came in contact with were massive assholes. And that whole mental image of Italian dudes as some of the sexiest in the world is a load of bullshit. I saw maybe one attractive guy. The rest of them were short tubby creepers getting in my face and grabbing my ass and honking their little Vespa horns at me. Pipe down, Italian men. And on top of it all, I’m DYING of heat stroke in this country. Coming from Miami, that’s saying a lot.
All of that aside, never in my life have I seen more beautiful things or tasted more delicious food. Italy was one week of intense ups and downs. Hang in there, beloved readers, because I covered six cities and consumed more pasta than I will ever admit, so we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
First up, the MV docked in Civitavecchia which is the tiny worthless port city of Rome. After an hour train ride (11AM and wine already uncorked, clearly) we reached Roma. Oh, forgot to add that we had a week in Italy and a tentative itinerary spanning the entire country in our heads – with absolutely nothing booked. Not one hotel room or train ticket. This was the epitome of winging it. We stepped out of Roma Termini onto the dirty busy street and saw a line of sketchy neon-signed hotels ahead of us on Via Marsala. Here we go. We went from hotel to hotel and finally settled at the majestic Hotel Aphrodite with sweeping views of some grungy apartment building’s air conditioning unit. Ah, Roma. Our feet were blistered, our shoulders sunburned, our stomachs blissfully happy.
I could write an entire novel about the food in Italy. Such phrases as “fireworks in my mouth” were tossed around. I had to physically get up from my chair and do a lap around the restaurant onto the street at one place in Florence because I was so overwhelmed with a) how delectable the food was and b) how quickly the vino had gone to my head.
As for the historic sights of Rome, we had two days to cover an entire empire. Needless to say, we were exhausted and pissy and only really spoke to each other unless food was involved or we took a group picture. We hit the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain (one of my favorites of Rome), Piaza de Popola, posted up at the Coliseum for like two hours, relaxed at the charming Piaza Navona, toured the Pantheon (unimpressive) and of course the Vatican.
I was really astounded by the Vatican. Obviously I knew what it is and how much importance it holds (half my family is Italian Catholic, I was genetically predisposed to make this pilgrimage). But actually being there was unlike anything I could have imagined.
It was Catholic Disney World.
Lines upon lines of thousands of eager tourists sweating it out in the Italian heat, bags full of rosaries and mugs plastered with Pope John Paul’s face, snapping photos and looking downright euphoric. I guess they didn’t notice the massive intimidating security detail, airport-style metal detectors and stern looking guards barking at harlots with their shoulders and ankles uncovered. I also learned that apparently you have to book a visit to the Vatican days/weeks in advance in order to avoid these throngs of unwashed masses. Lines can linger on for hours to see the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica. I’ll never see Michelangelo’s fingers reaching for one another on the ceiling of the Sistine because tours were straight booked for the next few days and none of us were willing to bear the lines. St. Peter’s, however, was absolutely breathtaking. A monstrosity of the Catholic faith, sprawling and almost gaudy, you forget you’re in a church and not an overdone mansion. I’ll spare you my nerdy Religious Studies-major dissertation; the Vatican is just a lot to handle. Holy water fountain? Billboards in the middle of the square in front of the Basilica? Can this be real life?
Rome did have memorable occurrences not involving historic sights, though. One evening after a delicious meal at an authentic Roman restaurant, the waiter returned with my credit card to tell me that the owners shared my last name! Considering my family did the whole Ellis Island schpeel from Rome, these people could potentially have been my distant relatives. We hugged and they rattled on excitedly in Italian and I just nodded along and smiled.
Later that night, we learned the hard way a pesky European hotel rule targeting such broke college students as ourselves looking for a deal. At the aforementioned Aphrodite, we calculated that we could feasibly shove five of us in a room for three. Whatever, we thought, we like each other and it worked out to be like 20 bucks per person, can’t beat that even at a hostel.
Negative.
3AM we stumble back from a hilarious night of bar-hopping (a megaphone was purchased and abused, just to give you an idea of the ridiculousness) and the surly desk employee refuses to let us in without booking another room. Grand schemes of scaling walls and sneaking in through the terrace were thrown around but alas, the long arm of the Roman law caught up with us. The man literally had his hand on the phone receiver to dial the police if we didn’t shut the hell up and shell out the Euro for another room. At that point we backed off.
Anyways, that’s enough for Rome. It’s a big city like any other big city, but lacking the charm and culture of somewhere like New York that has a rich intermingling of cultures. Rome’s culture lies in its ruins and its food, which isn’t bad if you’re seeing it as a tourist, but I wouldn’t want to spend any extended time there.
Up next was Venice, which was a delightful change from Rome’s ugliness the minute we stepped out of the train station and onto one of the city’s famous picturesque bridges. With only two things on our to-do list (ride a gondola and see St. Mark’s Square) we had the full day to wander and take in the beauty of the city. Shops carrying ornate decorated masks reminiscent of the days of Venice’s infamous Carnivale and tiny cafes line the windy cobblestone streets. With not a car in sight it’s a lovely place to get lost on a lazy afternoon but not so fun to get directions back (no real streets = a population of dumbasses who can’t tell left from right). The city is also teeming with adorable dogs, which always brightened my mood since the only animals that can survive in Rome are pigeons. The only low point was seeing a man wearing a UMiami National Championship t-shirt in St. Mark’s Square, excitedly throwing up “the U” and smiling at him, and watching him proceed to glare at us and storm away. What? Isn’t that a shirt from AllCanes? Italians just get meaner and meaner.
From Venice we ventured under the Tuscan sun to the beautiful city of Florence. A word of advice, if you travel to Florence by train, do not be disheartened by the few shitty square miles around the station. Get past the Academica (home of David the original stud) and the city’s magnificence makes itself known. The view of the river and the quaint buildings lining its shores from the Ponte Veccio (meaning Old Bridge) will quite honestly take your breath away. Florence looks like someone plucked the cutest cottages from Tuscany, made them a bit taller and skinnier and shoved them into a city. It’s relaxing and has great food and nightlife (despite the awkward Italian teenagers dancing to Elvis at one bar we wound up in, but that’s another story); definitely somewhere I am itching to spend more than a day in the future.
After a day of torturous travel south from Florence to the Amalfi Coast, we reached our more-or-less final destination: Sorrento.
Sorrento and the other tiny towns encompassing the cliffy Amalfi Coast were, hands down, the most incredibly stunning sights I’ve ever laid eyes on. I need a thesaurus to come up with enough adjectives to describe the beauty there. Sweeping. Spectacular. Breathtaking. The buildings of the Amalfi are teetering off the jagged cliffs, literally built into the rock and surrounded by lush greenery and meandering wildflowers. The water is an impossible navy blue, balmy enough to swim in the summer months. We spent the 4th of July climbing cliffs and exploring grottos and experiencing some of the most awe-inspiring natural beauty known to man. The view of the ocean from atop the cliffs literally shimmers like a Disney movie, and the islands are so perfect and untouched it feels like you’re the first person to have set foot on their rough shores. But once you’re inside the packed town at night, it appears every upper-middle class European family summers there. It’s like the Hamptons of Italy, a quaint summertime playground of the wealthy, but with way more striking beauty. I could have stayed there forever.
Alas, we had to return to the ship sometime. And the MV was docked in Naples – 100%, hands-down ugliest grossest place I’ve been in my life. Murder capital of Italy and mafia capital of the world. Loving it. Instead of clogging our lungs with the smog of the city we spent a few hours exploring Pompeii, the city frozen in time from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. It was historical and interesting, and of course a bit sad to see the ash-encased bodies frozen in aguish from those few moments of the eruption. It was a weird note to end on but I think we all were just happy to get back to normal outlets and non-temperamental air conditioning.
Italy was sensory overload on every level. I sheepishly wish I had spent the entire week in Sorrento and just stolen someone else’s pictures of the Pantheon to show my parents but alas, the sights of Italia are things you have to see before you die. The next time I travel there, however, I will be sipping delicious wine, eating good food and not lugging a week’s worth of clothes with me everywhere I go. Ciao, Italia. On we move to Croatia.
Italy, in contrast, was all of these things. One week and I can honestly say I might vomit if I have to put another hunk of mozzarella cheese in my mouth (okay fine, that’s a flat out lie). Or if I see another Midwesterner with a fanny pack. I can’t speak a word of Italian beyond grazi/prego and this seemed to offend close to everyone I spoke to despite my best efforts. Not going to lie, the vast majority of Italians I came in contact with were massive assholes. And that whole mental image of Italian dudes as some of the sexiest in the world is a load of bullshit. I saw maybe one attractive guy. The rest of them were short tubby creepers getting in my face and grabbing my ass and honking their little Vespa horns at me. Pipe down, Italian men. And on top of it all, I’m DYING of heat stroke in this country. Coming from Miami, that’s saying a lot.
All of that aside, never in my life have I seen more beautiful things or tasted more delicious food. Italy was one week of intense ups and downs. Hang in there, beloved readers, because I covered six cities and consumed more pasta than I will ever admit, so we’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
First up, the MV docked in Civitavecchia which is the tiny worthless port city of Rome. After an hour train ride (11AM and wine already uncorked, clearly) we reached Roma. Oh, forgot to add that we had a week in Italy and a tentative itinerary spanning the entire country in our heads – with absolutely nothing booked. Not one hotel room or train ticket. This was the epitome of winging it. We stepped out of Roma Termini onto the dirty busy street and saw a line of sketchy neon-signed hotels ahead of us on Via Marsala. Here we go. We went from hotel to hotel and finally settled at the majestic Hotel Aphrodite with sweeping views of some grungy apartment building’s air conditioning unit. Ah, Roma. Our feet were blistered, our shoulders sunburned, our stomachs blissfully happy.
I could write an entire novel about the food in Italy. Such phrases as “fireworks in my mouth” were tossed around. I had to physically get up from my chair and do a lap around the restaurant onto the street at one place in Florence because I was so overwhelmed with a) how delectable the food was and b) how quickly the vino had gone to my head.
As for the historic sights of Rome, we had two days to cover an entire empire. Needless to say, we were exhausted and pissy and only really spoke to each other unless food was involved or we took a group picture. We hit the Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain (one of my favorites of Rome), Piaza de Popola, posted up at the Coliseum for like two hours, relaxed at the charming Piaza Navona, toured the Pantheon (unimpressive) and of course the Vatican.
I was really astounded by the Vatican. Obviously I knew what it is and how much importance it holds (half my family is Italian Catholic, I was genetically predisposed to make this pilgrimage). But actually being there was unlike anything I could have imagined.
It was Catholic Disney World.
Lines upon lines of thousands of eager tourists sweating it out in the Italian heat, bags full of rosaries and mugs plastered with Pope John Paul’s face, snapping photos and looking downright euphoric. I guess they didn’t notice the massive intimidating security detail, airport-style metal detectors and stern looking guards barking at harlots with their shoulders and ankles uncovered. I also learned that apparently you have to book a visit to the Vatican days/weeks in advance in order to avoid these throngs of unwashed masses. Lines can linger on for hours to see the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Basilica. I’ll never see Michelangelo’s fingers reaching for one another on the ceiling of the Sistine because tours were straight booked for the next few days and none of us were willing to bear the lines. St. Peter’s, however, was absolutely breathtaking. A monstrosity of the Catholic faith, sprawling and almost gaudy, you forget you’re in a church and not an overdone mansion. I’ll spare you my nerdy Religious Studies-major dissertation; the Vatican is just a lot to handle. Holy water fountain? Billboards in the middle of the square in front of the Basilica? Can this be real life?
Rome did have memorable occurrences not involving historic sights, though. One evening after a delicious meal at an authentic Roman restaurant, the waiter returned with my credit card to tell me that the owners shared my last name! Considering my family did the whole Ellis Island schpeel from Rome, these people could potentially have been my distant relatives. We hugged and they rattled on excitedly in Italian and I just nodded along and smiled.
Later that night, we learned the hard way a pesky European hotel rule targeting such broke college students as ourselves looking for a deal. At the aforementioned Aphrodite, we calculated that we could feasibly shove five of us in a room for three. Whatever, we thought, we like each other and it worked out to be like 20 bucks per person, can’t beat that even at a hostel.
Negative.
3AM we stumble back from a hilarious night of bar-hopping (a megaphone was purchased and abused, just to give you an idea of the ridiculousness) and the surly desk employee refuses to let us in without booking another room. Grand schemes of scaling walls and sneaking in through the terrace were thrown around but alas, the long arm of the Roman law caught up with us. The man literally had his hand on the phone receiver to dial the police if we didn’t shut the hell up and shell out the Euro for another room. At that point we backed off.
Anyways, that’s enough for Rome. It’s a big city like any other big city, but lacking the charm and culture of somewhere like New York that has a rich intermingling of cultures. Rome’s culture lies in its ruins and its food, which isn’t bad if you’re seeing it as a tourist, but I wouldn’t want to spend any extended time there.
Up next was Venice, which was a delightful change from Rome’s ugliness the minute we stepped out of the train station and onto one of the city’s famous picturesque bridges. With only two things on our to-do list (ride a gondola and see St. Mark’s Square) we had the full day to wander and take in the beauty of the city. Shops carrying ornate decorated masks reminiscent of the days of Venice’s infamous Carnivale and tiny cafes line the windy cobblestone streets. With not a car in sight it’s a lovely place to get lost on a lazy afternoon but not so fun to get directions back (no real streets = a population of dumbasses who can’t tell left from right). The city is also teeming with adorable dogs, which always brightened my mood since the only animals that can survive in Rome are pigeons. The only low point was seeing a man wearing a UMiami National Championship t-shirt in St. Mark’s Square, excitedly throwing up “the U” and smiling at him, and watching him proceed to glare at us and storm away. What? Isn’t that a shirt from AllCanes? Italians just get meaner and meaner.
From Venice we ventured under the Tuscan sun to the beautiful city of Florence. A word of advice, if you travel to Florence by train, do not be disheartened by the few shitty square miles around the station. Get past the Academica (home of David the original stud) and the city’s magnificence makes itself known. The view of the river and the quaint buildings lining its shores from the Ponte Veccio (meaning Old Bridge) will quite honestly take your breath away. Florence looks like someone plucked the cutest cottages from Tuscany, made them a bit taller and skinnier and shoved them into a city. It’s relaxing and has great food and nightlife (despite the awkward Italian teenagers dancing to Elvis at one bar we wound up in, but that’s another story); definitely somewhere I am itching to spend more than a day in the future.
After a day of torturous travel south from Florence to the Amalfi Coast, we reached our more-or-less final destination: Sorrento.
Sorrento and the other tiny towns encompassing the cliffy Amalfi Coast were, hands down, the most incredibly stunning sights I’ve ever laid eyes on. I need a thesaurus to come up with enough adjectives to describe the beauty there. Sweeping. Spectacular. Breathtaking. The buildings of the Amalfi are teetering off the jagged cliffs, literally built into the rock and surrounded by lush greenery and meandering wildflowers. The water is an impossible navy blue, balmy enough to swim in the summer months. We spent the 4th of July climbing cliffs and exploring grottos and experiencing some of the most awe-inspiring natural beauty known to man. The view of the ocean from atop the cliffs literally shimmers like a Disney movie, and the islands are so perfect and untouched it feels like you’re the first person to have set foot on their rough shores. But once you’re inside the packed town at night, it appears every upper-middle class European family summers there. It’s like the Hamptons of Italy, a quaint summertime playground of the wealthy, but with way more striking beauty. I could have stayed there forever.
Alas, we had to return to the ship sometime. And the MV was docked in Naples – 100%, hands-down ugliest grossest place I’ve been in my life. Murder capital of Italy and mafia capital of the world. Loving it. Instead of clogging our lungs with the smog of the city we spent a few hours exploring Pompeii, the city frozen in time from the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. It was historical and interesting, and of course a bit sad to see the ash-encased bodies frozen in aguish from those few moments of the eruption. It was a weird note to end on but I think we all were just happy to get back to normal outlets and non-temperamental air conditioning.
Italy was sensory overload on every level. I sheepishly wish I had spent the entire week in Sorrento and just stolen someone else’s pictures of the Pantheon to show my parents but alas, the sights of Italia are things you have to see before you die. The next time I travel there, however, I will be sipping delicious wine, eating good food and not lugging a week’s worth of clothes with me everywhere I go. Ciao, Italia. On we move to Croatia.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
barcelona, te adoro
It’s really hard to be ripped away from something you’ve just realized you fell in love with. I’m sitting in my smaller-than-a-twin-sized bed on the MV Explorer, eyes low from lack of sleep, physical and emotional exhaustion. And I can’t go up to the top deck to watch the ship pull away from Barcelona; it’s just too sad to handle. Four days and I fell hard for this city. The fact that we have to leave is making my heart wrench. I can barely even fathom the fact that we’re about to spend a week in Italy; my mind keeps replaying the reel of Barca in my head.
After a journey across the Atlantic that at times seemed like it would never end, we finally reached Barcelona’s rugged coast, adorned with palm trees snug against a mountain range. The feeling of racing from my cabin to the outside deck with my roommate Mackenzie and getting our first glimpse of Barca was no less than euphoric. It remains the only day thus far on the trip that we’ve woken up for breakfast (7-8:30); our excitement was bigger than sleep. It felt like waking up at 4AM the day I was leaving for Disney World when I was five years old. Thinking somehow that waking hours would make our flight come faster.
First thing after the announcement was made that we could disembark, we grabbed a cab and shuttled up to the top of the city to explore our first taste of the genius that is the modernismo artist synonymous with Barcelona itself, Antoni Gaudi. And El Parc Guell is Gaudi’s real-life CandyLand: the artist’s vision of achieving the impossible, expanded to acres and acres of meandering paths and enchanted nooks. You are greeted first by a massive stone building, sprinkled with ornate tile and built in the quintessential Gaudi style: organic curves and whimsical shapes and colors. Proceed further and the depth of the park appears. A large open meeting space with vendors, musicians of all genres around each winding corner, seemingly endless green space for jogging, wandering or mere relaxation.
After the park we continued our Gaudi tour with one of the most recognizable landmarks of Barcelona – La Sagrada Familia. The church could very well be the most fascinating structure I’ve ever seen, perpetually under construction for the past century. It’s dual-sided, one half modern and strikingly Gaudi, with the same geometric curves and whimsical feel as his other famous works. The older side is a souring monstrosity with turrets and steeples reaching to the heavens yet fragile-looking as melting candles. I like to think that Gaudi wanted us to be forever perplexed by his religious masterpiece, yet struck by the symbolism of its construction. The church is a work in progress, possibly forever for the genius left no tangible blueprint. Couldn’t the same be said of “the church” meaning Christianity as a whole? My fascination with Gaudi continued as we toured La Pedrera, one of his famously designed apartment buildings with its wonderland roof overlooking the city.
The rest of my stay in Barcelona exists in my mind as a blur. Granted, that could be due to the gallons of sangria consumed and absurdly late nights. (I’m talking LATE – dinner crowds file in around 11 and club-goers keep trucking through till 6AM closing).
The food here is as expected, lots of paella (delicious), Iberian hams and tapas. Although admittedly, the same menu items are commonplace at almost every restaurant and the repetition gets a bit tedious after a few days. So much so that myself and one other SAS traveler whose name will be withheld for anonymity committed the primary mortal sin of travel.
We ate a Big Mac.
There they were, gleaming yellow arches after a grueling morning of walking around Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s charming shopping hub, lined with vendors and sidewalk artists. My stomach had just about reached its capacity of tapas for the trip and then suddenly that all-too-familiar insatiable craving came back. Something so undeniably American it made me want to shoot myself. Halfway around the world, and we sheepishly snuck into McDonalds, ordered one Big Mac between us, ate it, and got the hell out of there. Interesting side note: McDonald’s are so much nicer in Europe and have more selection, like Kit-Kat McFlurries! I’m a little peeved my post-Grove snacking isn’t that diverse in Miami.
However, not the staggering La Sagrada or the equally reverent Big Mac could prepare me for what would happen one fateful day in Barcelona’s shockingly perfect Gothic Quarter. Ecstasy was achieved. And no, I don’t mean chemically induced. I think I found heaven. Or at least what I hope my heaven looks like one day.
A tiny hole in the wall restaurant tucked in a little quad off one of the main streets in the Gothic Quarter. The setting was too flawless to not be the makings of a postcard. The inspiration travel book writers must turn to when describing this neighborhood. The weather was more perfect than words, sun shining through the canopy of trees above our heads onto our tiny antique wooden table in the quad outside the restaurant. Happy people strolled by, either with adorable dogs (pup-friendly, another highlight of Barcelona for me) or hand-in-hand. Blissful Spanish cuisine spilled onto our plates, sangria flowing maybe a touch too heavy-handedly. Periodically, tiny orange blossoms from the trees above us would gently cascade down and land in our hair and café con leches. A Spanish guitarist meandered over to our table and started playing Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” Our friend Nicki was so taken by the scene mixed with the music that she started crying. And then he asked for a suggestion from me, and without even pressing my music taste began playing “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead. Completely and utterly shocking. If this isn’t what heaven is like I don’t think I want to go. And honestly, devoted readers, the innumerable photos I took and words that are flowing from my fingers right now will never do it justice. I will remember those hours and their perfection, our laughs filling the air and rising high above Barcelona, for the rest of my life.
It was in those moments that I fell in love with Barcelona. We stayed out until 9 in the morning after hitting all of the necessary clubs on our last night here (Razzmatazz which is overrated, Shoko which is underrated, and Opium which is perfection). After stumbling out the doors of Opium at 6AM closing time, arm-and-arm, we watched the sun rise over the ocean and savored our last breathless moments in this enchanted city.
The memories we created here could fill volumes. Crashing a French guy’s bachelor party in the VIP section of a club and instead of getting kicked out, getting fed Dom Perignon gratis for the rest of the night (and the night after). Viva La France! Embarking on our own “DIY Barcelona Bar Crawl,” sampling a local chupito at each establishment. Reuniting with a Miami friend in the most unlikely of cities. Our friend Shea attempting to smuggle a contraband ham sandwich onto the boat in his pants. Plunging in the freezing Mediterranean hours before we had to be back on the ship just because. Friendships were solidified, days seemingly like years.
Barcelona, I will be back. And next time, it will be for more than four days. There are enough beautiful medieval alleyways in the Gothic Quarter; it could take me a lifetime to photograph all of them. Doesn’t sound like too bad of a plan.
After a journey across the Atlantic that at times seemed like it would never end, we finally reached Barcelona’s rugged coast, adorned with palm trees snug against a mountain range. The feeling of racing from my cabin to the outside deck with my roommate Mackenzie and getting our first glimpse of Barca was no less than euphoric. It remains the only day thus far on the trip that we’ve woken up for breakfast (7-8:30); our excitement was bigger than sleep. It felt like waking up at 4AM the day I was leaving for Disney World when I was five years old. Thinking somehow that waking hours would make our flight come faster.
First thing after the announcement was made that we could disembark, we grabbed a cab and shuttled up to the top of the city to explore our first taste of the genius that is the modernismo artist synonymous with Barcelona itself, Antoni Gaudi. And El Parc Guell is Gaudi’s real-life CandyLand: the artist’s vision of achieving the impossible, expanded to acres and acres of meandering paths and enchanted nooks. You are greeted first by a massive stone building, sprinkled with ornate tile and built in the quintessential Gaudi style: organic curves and whimsical shapes and colors. Proceed further and the depth of the park appears. A large open meeting space with vendors, musicians of all genres around each winding corner, seemingly endless green space for jogging, wandering or mere relaxation.
After the park we continued our Gaudi tour with one of the most recognizable landmarks of Barcelona – La Sagrada Familia. The church could very well be the most fascinating structure I’ve ever seen, perpetually under construction for the past century. It’s dual-sided, one half modern and strikingly Gaudi, with the same geometric curves and whimsical feel as his other famous works. The older side is a souring monstrosity with turrets and steeples reaching to the heavens yet fragile-looking as melting candles. I like to think that Gaudi wanted us to be forever perplexed by his religious masterpiece, yet struck by the symbolism of its construction. The church is a work in progress, possibly forever for the genius left no tangible blueprint. Couldn’t the same be said of “the church” meaning Christianity as a whole? My fascination with Gaudi continued as we toured La Pedrera, one of his famously designed apartment buildings with its wonderland roof overlooking the city.
The rest of my stay in Barcelona exists in my mind as a blur. Granted, that could be due to the gallons of sangria consumed and absurdly late nights. (I’m talking LATE – dinner crowds file in around 11 and club-goers keep trucking through till 6AM closing).
The food here is as expected, lots of paella (delicious), Iberian hams and tapas. Although admittedly, the same menu items are commonplace at almost every restaurant and the repetition gets a bit tedious after a few days. So much so that myself and one other SAS traveler whose name will be withheld for anonymity committed the primary mortal sin of travel.
We ate a Big Mac.
There they were, gleaming yellow arches after a grueling morning of walking around Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s charming shopping hub, lined with vendors and sidewalk artists. My stomach had just about reached its capacity of tapas for the trip and then suddenly that all-too-familiar insatiable craving came back. Something so undeniably American it made me want to shoot myself. Halfway around the world, and we sheepishly snuck into McDonalds, ordered one Big Mac between us, ate it, and got the hell out of there. Interesting side note: McDonald’s are so much nicer in Europe and have more selection, like Kit-Kat McFlurries! I’m a little peeved my post-Grove snacking isn’t that diverse in Miami.
However, not the staggering La Sagrada or the equally reverent Big Mac could prepare me for what would happen one fateful day in Barcelona’s shockingly perfect Gothic Quarter. Ecstasy was achieved. And no, I don’t mean chemically induced. I think I found heaven. Or at least what I hope my heaven looks like one day.
A tiny hole in the wall restaurant tucked in a little quad off one of the main streets in the Gothic Quarter. The setting was too flawless to not be the makings of a postcard. The inspiration travel book writers must turn to when describing this neighborhood. The weather was more perfect than words, sun shining through the canopy of trees above our heads onto our tiny antique wooden table in the quad outside the restaurant. Happy people strolled by, either with adorable dogs (pup-friendly, another highlight of Barcelona for me) or hand-in-hand. Blissful Spanish cuisine spilled onto our plates, sangria flowing maybe a touch too heavy-handedly. Periodically, tiny orange blossoms from the trees above us would gently cascade down and land in our hair and café con leches. A Spanish guitarist meandered over to our table and started playing Oasis’ “Wonderwall.” Our friend Nicki was so taken by the scene mixed with the music that she started crying. And then he asked for a suggestion from me, and without even pressing my music taste began playing “Paranoid Android” by Radiohead. Completely and utterly shocking. If this isn’t what heaven is like I don’t think I want to go. And honestly, devoted readers, the innumerable photos I took and words that are flowing from my fingers right now will never do it justice. I will remember those hours and their perfection, our laughs filling the air and rising high above Barcelona, for the rest of my life.
It was in those moments that I fell in love with Barcelona. We stayed out until 9 in the morning after hitting all of the necessary clubs on our last night here (Razzmatazz which is overrated, Shoko which is underrated, and Opium which is perfection). After stumbling out the doors of Opium at 6AM closing time, arm-and-arm, we watched the sun rise over the ocean and savored our last breathless moments in this enchanted city.
The memories we created here could fill volumes. Crashing a French guy’s bachelor party in the VIP section of a club and instead of getting kicked out, getting fed Dom Perignon gratis for the rest of the night (and the night after). Viva La France! Embarking on our own “DIY Barcelona Bar Crawl,” sampling a local chupito at each establishment. Reuniting with a Miami friend in the most unlikely of cities. Our friend Shea attempting to smuggle a contraband ham sandwich onto the boat in his pants. Plunging in the freezing Mediterranean hours before we had to be back on the ship just because. Friendships were solidified, days seemingly like years.
Barcelona, I will be back. And next time, it will be for more than four days. There are enough beautiful medieval alleyways in the Gothic Quarter; it could take me a lifetime to photograph all of them. Doesn’t sound like too bad of a plan.
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