The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part IX (Instanbul, Turkey)

Our next destination was supposed to be Mykonos, Greece--a place we later learned wasn't one to miss. Over the cruise ship's loud speaker, Captain Lars informed us that the area had been experiencing atrocious winds for five straight days; not a single ship had been able to dock during that time.

So onward we went to Istanbul.

After docking and getting off the ship, Mike pushed me in front of him and said, "I think you should walk in front of me while we're here."

"Why?" I asked.

"I don't know; I'm not sure I trust this place. It'll be easier for someone to snatch you if I can't see you."

"Should be okay if it's a cruise excursion," I mentioned. But alas, I walked aimlessly in front of him.

But that didn't happen for long: Istanbul gave better vibes than we had anticipated. The city was surprisingly clean and its people honest, polite, and amiable. We noticed this upon entering Ayasofya ("Hagia Sophia"), our chosen restaurant for lunch, and a small shop where Mike purchased postcards.

Ayasofya (Ah-ya-SO-fee-yah): once a Byzantine church, then a mosque, and finally a museum whose interior was simply indescribable. But I'll make an attempt: grand, cryptic, oddly enchanting, historically-flushed... One can discern its Christian subtleties among its Islamic features. And it seemed there was no battle for attention between the two. In this place, one's religious roots didn't seem to matter.

End sappy moment. Mike and I spent a good chunk of time here since there was no hurry to head back to the ship. Then, when we felt like it, we went across the way to the Blue Mosque and snapped some photos. Then we moseyed back ship-ward to feed the hungry monsters in our bellies.

"How about this restaurant?" I asked Mike.

"Nah," he replied.

"Maybe this one?"

"Eh.."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't have the right feeling."

"Alright, let me know when you have the 'right feeling.'"

Then, a few minutes later, he found it. It wasn't fancy or interesting, but it "felt right" with Mike. We enjoyed outdoor seating with beautiful weather until a herd of blond women wearing bug-eyed sunglasses sat at the table next to us and began chain smoking. We asked to switch our table indoors, and the men running the restaurant gladly accommodated. They even helped us get an Internet connection on Mike's iPhone. And didn't charge us for bread (see "Rome" post).

Anyway, that's not incredibly interesting. But I'll continue because I have a duty to telleth this story.

After lunch, Mike and I continued ship-ward down a street that screamed "TOURIST!"

"Sir!" A man said to Mike, pointing at his own chin, "You need barber?" He was referring to Mike's beard that I never let him shave off.

"She won't let me," Mike replied.

The man looked at me like I was insane. Maybe I am, but that doesn't stop me from enjoying facial hair. We continued.

After being pestered some more to "eat this" and "buy that," we stumbled upon a tiny gift shop. Looking at the rack of postcards outside of it, we noticed a man in his 30s coming out of the shop.

"If you want, I can mail for you," he told us.

Mike and I paused. Did we want to trust him with our family's and friends' addresses?

"I already have postcards from British family. I have an hour before it closes," he elaborated. He was referring to their post office.

Well, what can one really do with the information on a postcard? Probably the worst that could happen would be misplacing it. So, we went along with it.

We followed the man into the shop and he sold us five Turkish stamps. With care, he placed them onto the postcards for us, and he and I waited while Mike wrote out four postcards. He began questioning us about our purpose here.

"We're just tourists from a cruise ship," we told him.

"Ah, you are not staying long?" He further inquired.

"Nope, we have a couple more hours and then we head to Izmir."

"That is all?! There's so much in Turkey, more than two day's worth." He went on to tell us all the amazing things about his country, and then revealed his travel quests to visit every man-made and natural wonder, from the Pyramids to Victoria Falls. I told him I was in Egypt right before the revolution, and then asked him, "How much of Turkey is Muslim?"

"Ninety-five percent," he told me. I was shocked. Turkey seemed pretty stable and civilized for what I knew of Muslim countries. In the States, we tend to knock Islam for having obnoxious teachings, particularly those allowing men to treat women like the dirt on an ass's hoof. Egypt is, I think, 85% Muslim, and all we hear about is rape. The media's portrayal, and my multiple close calls to getting ripped off there, helped form my Muslim schema. Boy, was I wrong to do that based on such isolated situations.

It was wonderful having a chat with him, a respectful man. Mike finished his postcards and we thanked him profusely for his help.

"When we come back, we'll visit your shop again," Mike told him. We shook his hand and left.

On the way to the ship, we had to cross a bridge to get to the other side of the dock. Just before the bridge it began to get windy, and at one point my dress flew up just enough to reveal, well, just enough. Mike and I noticed another way to get to the other side without being molested by vendors, so we took that route.

If you look closely, you can see hookahs at the restaurant tables.

Well, here we got molested by more restaurant workers. They were nice people, but we had enough for a day. Mike kept his arm around my backside, giving me a little push past the men.

"Whoa, whoa, sir!" One of them stopped us and pointed to Mike's arm, which was sitting slightly above my "butt-ocks" (Forrest Gump), "Not good; keep to yourself here."

"It wasn't touching anything bad," Mike said.

The young man ignored him and looked at me, "What's your name?"

I told him. "Nice to meet you," he responded, shaking my hand and holding onto it. Mike was waiting and I looked over and laughed. The restaurant worker kept looking at me while holding my hand, periodically shaking it more. That wasn't different from Egypt...

"Nice to meet you, too, but we have to go," I told him.

"Want to...?" He pointed to the inside of the restaurant.

"Just ate," Mike said.

"Okay, okay. Have a good day," he said to us humbly and relaxed.

Mike and I continued toward the ship, hopped on, and relaxed the rest of the day.

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part VIII (More Pompei photos)

Intact wall painting

Mt. Vesuvius

Sinks

Writing on a wall

A crosswalk

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part VII (Pompei)

The ship's next stop was in Napoli (Naples), from where we took a train to Pompei. Arriving in Napoli after two frustrating days in Florence and Rome, Mike and I were set for only a half day in the "Vegas" of Italy.

But first, Napoli was disgusting and rotten; more accurately termed "a dump." But we needed to walk a couple of kilometers to get to the train station. The walk was slightly unpleasant scent- and scenic-wise, but entering the train station was like stepping through the gates of Heaven. And as usual, we checked out the ticket machines.

"Pompei" wasn't listed.

We double-checked the Google instructions, and sure enough we were in the right place. So how the hell were we going to get to Pompei? We asked a woman working a coffee shop.

"You need-a go to the newspaper shop-a or tobacco shop-a," she pointed across the way.

Oh. Kay...since that's so obvious. [face-palm]

So we purchased the tickets...and then couldn't figure out how to get to the correct terminal. Because that was hidden, too. One of the female customers at the coffee shop led us to a man who looked like he worked at the station, asked him, and then the man directed us to a few teenage boys who were heading that way. The teenagers led us to the correct terminal while immersed in their own conversation.

---

Mike and I arrived at Pompei. Walking toward the ruins, we enjoyed the relaxing "small town" landscape like we had in Pisa: strolled down the main street, purchased due ("two") cannoli (Dear American White people who say "a cannoli": "cannoli" is plural and "cannolo" or Sicilian "cannolu" is singular), and enjoyed the weather before it got deadly again. It worked for us.

Through the ruins' entrance one is immediately greeted by the famous amphitheater. After walking into, through, and popping out of it, Mike and I enjoyed a nice, shady walk to what used to be the residential outskirts.

Walking this pathway, save for our landing into Barcelona (and a few other painful life experiences), I'd never known anything that perpetual. For as long as we walked the narrow "sidewalk" there were a plethora of partially-standing stone structures with intact wall paintings, stone benches, sinks, shelves, etc. And in one building there was a relatively large crowd around--at the risk of sounding like a 'tard--a "preserved" dead person ("preserved" = by hardened volcanic ash?). It was pretty cool...

1-ish PM knocked and it got hot. I don't do well with long, aimless, hot walks, and Mike neither slept well the night before nor had breakfast. His cells were beginning to shift into Gear II: cannibalize the next fat tourist. We turned around and headed out.

This time the friken hot train that returned us to Napoli was both punctual and truthful about its destination. It was the best thing since the cannoli.

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part VI (Rome - Continued)

Continued...


We entered La Cappella Sistina.

I'd forgotten its grandeur and marveled at the outcome of Michelangelo's sculpting hand and eye. For those who are unaware, Michelangelo refused to call himself anything other than a sculptor and was a brilliant observer of the human form. So, in this project he painted his figures with the "chiaroscuro" ("light-dark") technique (AKA with shadows) to make them more life-like. He also adored the male form, so even his female subjects have masculine qualities. In fact, during the chapel's restoration in 1980 (?) one of the characters, who was thought to be male for centuries, was discovered to be female. This occurred when some "clothing" added to the figures during the Protestant Reformation was removed chemically.

In 1994, it was also discovered that a figure Michelangelo modeled after himself has a snake biting his own penis (view video at 11:14).

"What do you think?" I asked Mike.

"Pretty cool," he said.

I pointed to different parts of the chapel, trying my best to remember and explain what I had learned in previous courses as a former art history major.

"Cool," he said. At this point I could tell he was itching for the Colosseum. Oh well.

So, with a few hours before we needed to catch the last fast train to Civitavecchia, we headed out and grabbed food at a nearby restaurant. We were charged three euros for the bread given to us before the main course, which is normally free in the States...and most other places. Dumb.

Following that, we took the Metro to the Colosseum. I'd also forgotten that, when exiting the Metro system, the Colosseum and Arch of Constantine are right there, conveniently, to greet you.

"Oh, wow," Mike said with a more surprised tone.

Like a mother with her toddler, I let him have fun in the playground. But boy, was it getting hot. I was getting thirstier and browner by the minute. As we migrated to the Roman Forum and the Forum of Trajan, I used up euros to purchase bottle after bottle of water while shooing off irritating vendors. Time passed by like China's new bullet train and we had an hour to return to the station.

"We should probably start heading ba--oooh, Trajan's Column!" I said.

A few minutes go by...

"Okay, time to head ba--oooh, is that a museum?! Those steps are really high."

...

"Maybe now--oooh, another beverage stand!" We purchased our last bottle of water, and upon leaving one of the men working the stand squirted me.


"There are two nearby Metro stations," Mike said, using Google Maps again.


We chose one and made our way. A little over a kilometer later, we found it.


But the ticket machine wouldn't take our paper euros. And there were no ticket windows. We set for a bank, got some change, and came back. With thirty minutes left, it still wouldn't take our money.


Mike got fed up and went to a nearby shop to ask for advice. I waited by the ticket machines. A few minutes later I noticed that the "Exit only" gates had been opened. It seemed many people were having trouble with the machines.


So I ran across the street to fetch Mike.


"MIKE! IT'S OOOOPEEENED!" We ran back to the Metro and entered the next train, ticketless.


We approached our stop, got off, and RAN. Half an hour left.


Being on a one-month hiatus from the CrossFit gym, I was crapping out after a few minutes. Mike, a robust fellow who doesn't know his own strength, missed a window to pass between two people and accidentally bumped into a man slightly larger and taller than he.

"BIPPITY BOPPITY! BIPPITY BOPPITY!" The man turned around and shouted in Italian with his arms out.

"Sorry, sorry!" Mike said defensively.

"BIPPITYBOPPITYBIPPITYBOPPITY!!!!" He shouted again.

"SORRY!!!!"

Mike and I continued, but because I was short-winded we started to run late. So we caught a cabbie.

Of course, the ten-minute ride cost us an ear and a few toes...and we didn't have enough cash...again. This frustrated the cabbie, so Mike went to a nearby ATM while I waited in the taxi. He returned with enough cash and we jogged to the train station, just missing the fast train.

So, we waited around for the slow train to Civitavecchia. Thankfully, after a blistering one-hour train ride and another unfriendly cabbie, we arrived at the ship 15 minutes early.

"Let's make it a half day in Pompei tomorrow," I told Mike, and he agreed.

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part V (Rome)

After the mess of things in and coming out of Florence, it would be a new day in Rome from Civitavecchia. We took a train (that was awfully reminiscent of the Hogwarts Express) into Rome and set for the smallest sovereignty in the world, Vatican City. My second time (first time about six years ago), Mike's first.

We were approaching the square when an Iranian man stopped us to enlighten us with a "good deal" for getting into the Vatican.

"Look at the line--it takes two hours to get into the Vatican. For 45 euros a person, I can get you in in five minutes. All you have to do is pay the office," he told us. 

"Where's the office?" Mike and I asked.

He pointed one way and we told him we would look for it on our own. As tourists, at that moment we didn't feel like trusting anyone. So into the round "square" we went.

But we didn't get too far. Our egos were defeated by the mystery "office"--wherever it was--and with about five hours to see everything we wanted to see in Rome, Mike and I decided to go back to the man.

Within about ten minutes we ended up at this remote building, where we paid the 90 euros, put on round stickers about half the size of a dime (to show we were part of a tour), and then joined a group of clueless tourists out front.

"Your tour will start at 11:15," the Iranian man told us. It was 11:00.

He left and we waited. 11:20 came around and out appeared a tall obese man with a cane and sun hat. Sweating lard, he looked on the brink of cardiac arrest.

And that's why it didn't, after all, take five minutes to get into the Vatican's back entrance. In fact, it took about half the time it would normally take to get in. After following Jabba the Hut, he handed us off to two men who--for Pete's sake (See what I did there? We were at St. Peter's Basilica. Har har...)--couldn't figure out the ticket situation. Back and forth we were led in the ticketing room, and Mike and I were about to call it quits, call the bank for a refund, and head to the Colosseum. Again, we were on the clock.

But then Jabba signaled us toward the security line, where we finally got the paper. A ticket rip and audio tour guide later, we were finally on our way. It was, like, 12:30/12:45.

"Meet me at the top of the stairs; I'm going to take the elevator," Jabba said.

I saw a sign reading "Cappella Sistina -->" and said to Mike, "Hey, let's just get outa here and head that way." So we ditched the tour and eventually found ourselves in the Hall of Emperors, on the way to La Cappella Sistina.

Mike got a kick out of this part. Schooled in Greek and Roman mythology, he identified many emperors and gods without referring to their labels. He did this and photographed the statues while I asked around for La Cappella Sistina.

"Bippity boppity...bippity boppity..." A security guard instructed me in Italian, moving his hand every which way.

When we were done with the Hall, we found that the line did exactly that. My memory from six years ago could not recall such a monster.

"It's hard to believe that a cult put this all together," said Mike as I dragged him through the ridiculousness. It seemed we were being herded to Slovenia. The only indication that we were close was a sign in a narrow hallway tsk-tsking me for wearing inappropriate attire. Thankfully, because of the same mishap in Pisa Mike kept my jeans and his jacket in his backpack. I tied the jacket around my waist and wrapped the jeans around my shoulders. Yeah, I got stares, but I was radiating American individualism badassness.

A million years later, we met the entrance of La Cappella Sistina.


To be continued...

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part IV (Pisa and Florence - Continued)

(Continued...)

Mike and I were relieved to be on the train to Livorno; however, it had a secret up its sleeve and we didn't know it until too late. We were relaxing, waiting stop after stop, and then started to get suspicious. We should have seen the sign for Livorno by now... Worried, Mike marched to the front of the train to ask the conductor when we would arrive at our destination. About five minutes later I saw Mike running back in a panic.

"GET OFF!" He shouted.

We rushed off the train and watched it leave.

"What's wrong?!" I asked.

"He said we were supposed to get off at Pisa and then take another train to Livorno," Mike said.

Wait, the ticket says "Livorno," the train's marquee said "Livorno," but it wasn't supposed to take us to damn Livorno?!

Oy.

We didn't know where we were, the next train wouldn't arrive until much later, and we were low on cash. The station was empty and the ticket window was closed, so we had no one around to help us...except for a cabbie outside.

"Porto Livorno?" We asked a lady who could barely speak English.

"Si, si," she said.

"How long?" I pointed to my wrist to emulate a watch.

"Eeeehh, forty/forty-five-a minute," she said with little confidence. We had roughly that much time before the ship closed off to late passengers.

What else could we do? We hopped in the cab and asked her to stop at a bank on the way.

For being in a "hurry," she drove about 70 KPH (kilometers per hour) on the freeway. We drove by nearly every stop we had seen on the train.

"What time-a be there?" She asked.

"Six-thirty," we told her. It was around 5:50 PM.

She shook her head, stressed. "Mama mia! There are-a two porto; which?"

Good question.

She told us the two in her bippity-boppity tongue and we guessed one of them.

"It is-a that one?" She asked.

"We're not sure," Mike replied.

She didn't understand that response, so I shrugged my shoulders from the back seat. Body language became very useful on this trip since it's something all humans have in common.

"Mama miaaa!" She said again.

6:25 PM came around and we made it to a port.

"That's the ship!" Mike said.

I looked out the window. "Mike, that's Carnival, not Norwegian," I said, disappointed.

"Which-a ship?" The woman said, confused.

"Norwegian," we told her.

"Nor-a...?"

Mike wrote it out for her. He spelled it as "Norwegain."

"No, no, no--" I began.

"Oooh, Nor-veh-jun!" She said.

Phew.

Then next to the Carnival ship we saw Norwegian. We drove closer and noticed it wasn't Norwegian "Spirit."

Oh no... 6:28 PM.

"HELP-A ME!" The lady panicked.

Mike and I freaked out as well. We saw a man working a booth and asked him how to get to the other port. He told us and we made our way to the other side, doing our best to memorize his directions.

And boy, was that a route! 6:37 PM came around and we started to lose hope. We began warming up to the idea of meeting the ship in Rome, which was the next scheduled excursion. A very expensive one.

But then...we saw the right ship. We sped toward it. 6:38, and the ramp was still open. Waving our hands out the windows to signal our arrival to the crew, we hoped they would let us on. They saw us and weren't in any hurry to pull up the ramp. Thaaaaank goodness.






We got out of the cab and thanked the woman profusely. The fare, however... 200 euros.

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part III (Pisa and Florence, Italy)

Day V


17 June 2012, Porto Livorno

Mike and I were ambitious and aimed to cover two cities--Pisa and Florence, an hour apart from each other--and make it back to the ship by 6:30 PM. A bus at the port brought us to another bus stop at the Livorno City Center, where we learned we had to take another bus to a "Stazzione" ("Station"), where we would--guess what?--hop on a final bus to the Leaning Tower, Cathedral, and Baptistery. We quickly learned that, unless one rode in a cab, transportation in Italy was usually not a straight shot and very unreliable. Its inefficiency (and other things) made it no wonder that the country was falling apart.

Pisa

But the small town of Pisa had big things to offer. As cliche as it sounds, upon entering the area where all three structures stood, my heart stopped. This visit had been on my bucket list for some time and was worth the 15 bus rides. Mike and I gawked at the buildings' white splendor, thinking that those who hail from Pisa (and Italians in general) must be very proud. I decided to splurge on a bit of cell phone data by sending my dad a Father's Day picture.

We paid for admittance into the Baptistery, where one finds Nicola Pisano's pulpit. For art history buffs, I believe the pulpit was made during that awkward Medieval-Renaissance interchange, when artists began to consider proximity differences (so all subjects in an artwork, regardless of position, wouldn't all be the same size). (*Conclude nerd moment*) The cathedral was free and we entered; however, the tower's interior was off-limits until 1 PM, making us sad people because we had to get to Florence.

It was hard to leave, but Mike lured me out of there with the word "gelato." The Stazzione was a two-mile walk from the tower, so on the way we stopped at a gelateria for Mike's first-ever cone. The flavors were godly and nothing could compare.

Florence

From Pisa we took a train to Florence, where we had three hours to see the unique Florence Cathedral and then Michelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia. Searching for the Cathedral first, the sun beat on us hard as we sifted through all the buildings that made the structure barely visible overhead. After some time, we found the Cathedral using Google Maps again, which was more spectacular that expected (the Cathedral). Embellished in what I describe as "Candy Land colors" and Tuscan rectangles and stripes, the Cathedral was humongous--too humongous for a wee person like me to circumnavigate in under five minutes if I took my time. I kept pausing and cocking my head up at its height, especially at the dome expertly designed by Filippo Brunelleschi during the Renaissance.

Then Mike brought me back to Earth with a reminder that we had two hours before catching the train back to Livorno. We didn't have time to go inside the Cathedral, so we snapped a few photos of the outside and began our quest for the Galleria. Upon finding the building, we were "warmly" greeted by a long line blanketed by searing hot sun rays. It was unlikely we were going to make it inside, but we tried. After a few minutes the line moved a few feet and then stopped. Twenty minutes later, nothing. Mike and I kept checking up ahead every other minute thereafter and were continually disappointed. Then we were really miffed when a large tour group entered the building without difficulty. That's what the wait was for.

It was no use. With a little over half an hour to catch the train, we reluctantly thought "Maybe next time" and left the line in a hurry. On the way to the Stazzione, we were confronted by the city's narrow streets, tall buildings, and people-sheep. At one point we were lost and a student activist approached us.

"Scusa!" She said.

We jumped, feeling inconvenienced by her presence.

"It's-a okay; I'm-a good girl!" She said.

"Can you tell us how to get to the Stazzione?" Mike asked.

Thankfully she gave us instructions in decent English. We told her sorry we couldn't help her and continued on our way, changing gears to a slow and then fast jog. We made it three minutes early, panting.

While walking off the fear, I began to feel something behind me. I turned around and found an atrocious man with a lion's mane uncomfortably close to me, staring me in the eye. Natural instinct told me to hide behind Mike, which I did, and the hobo tried following me. I guess Mike's shielding me angered the guy, prompting him to harass us further while speaking perverse Italian. Getting all up on Mike, with me still behind him, the hobo's body language became even more threatening.

"Dude, I don't speak Italian!" Mike said, frustrated.

Two seconds later, the hobo finally stopped and motioned to leave, muttering offensively under his breath.

Mike and I looked at each other. Oy.

The train arrived and we boarded, exhausted.

To be continued...

The Mediterranean Cruise Chronicles: Part II (Getting on the ship, France)

Day III


15 June 2012, Barcelona Port

After two nights in Barcelona, it felt strange "beginning" our real vacation, which was a 12-night Mediterranean cruise. A nice cabbie transported Mike and me from the hotel to the port. We checked in three bags, got in line--the first of many this trip--and after I overheard a woman at the counter asking guests for their passports, I asked Mike, "You have your passport, right?"

He checked the money belt. He checked his pockets. He checked his backpack. He checked my purse.

Yeah, Mike left it in the luggage.

So, he scrambled out of the building to track down the man who wheeled away our bags while I kept our spot in line. Over time, I had to let others go ahead of me. A plump British woman with spectacles and bad teeth asked me, "You deci'ed no' to go?" I briefly explained the "Tale of the Runaway Passport" and she replied, "Well, he kin'a needs that!"

After nearly an hour, Mike returned and I was able to breathe again.

"Found it?" I asked.

"Not yet. I just wanted to give you my things in case I...don't make it."

Just kidding; he didn't really say that.

"Not yet. Not a single person out there speaks English; it took forever for them to understand me. Here's our change so I don't have to take it out for security again." We couldn't communicate via phone unless we wanted to sell our kidneys for the minutes and texts.

He left and I let more people pass. The line was beginning to abridge, and so was our time to get on the ship. This wouldn't be the last time we had this kind of trouble.

Finally, about 20 minutes later he returned with a passport. And it was his passport.





Relieved, we checked in ourselves, entered the ship after taking those silly boarding photos, and found our room. It was tiny, dark box, but that wasn't the issue. The issue was a tiny, dark box that happened to be vibrating like a hundred epochal 5.0 earthquakes. In other words, $600 bought us a shaking box right next to the ship's elevators. It also bought us beds with stained pillows.

"Great, I'm not going to sleep for 12 nights. I'm going to complain, and if they don't listen to me then I'm going to start a campaign involving social media, word of mouth, and a good lawyer," Mike said infuriatingly.

So he complained to the ship's Guest Services: "It feels like the room is attached to a Saturn V." (One cannot expect more from someone with an Aerospace degree.)

Luckily, after the ship set sail we got upgraded to an unoccupied $800 room two decks above the shaker. This box was quiet, had clean pillows, and had our luggage.

--------------

After settling, Mike and I decided to send off our first batch of postcards. Walking around the ship looking for a Post Office-type place, I asked a random Filipino man working a bar, "Is there some kind of 'Post Office' on the ship?"


"What's a 'Post Office'?"


"Like, a place to mail things."


"Oh... I don't know... Ask Guest Services."


So we asked a lady at the front desk about mailing postcards, and our ears bled at the sound of the postage costs.


"(Blah blah blah)...$1.50 in Greece and $2.00 in Italy."


"So, we won't mail anything in Italy," Mike replied with some humor.


Except for Pisa and Venice, Italy would not be our friend on this trip.


Day IV


16 June 2012, Toulon, France

We didn't expect much in Toulon since we read reviews of its minute fame in tourism. And that's exactly what we got: not much.

Well, Toulon was alright. A bit dirty, but alright. At first we followed a path recommended by the port's tourism center, which was nice, but Mike and I were itching for a little improvisation. We set for a really, really long hill under the hot European sun.

An hour into it and discovering nothing worth our while, Mike finally produced Google Maps on his iPhone. We weren't too far from a gondola that would take us to a restaurant at the top. But I was two weeks out of CrossFit shape and the hill was getting steeper by the step. I was becoming a grumpy pants.

But the thought of French cuisine kept me going. Many burned calories and bullets of sweat later, we made it to the top. At the restaurant, no one spoke English and we didn't speak French. And although I could understand the French words better than the Spanish ones on the menus in Barcelona, my skills failed me at this restaurant.

We ordered something, though. We kind of randomly pointed at menu items and went with those. Mike told his friends on Facebook, "I have no idea what I just ordered." That was after he accidentally said "Gracias" to the server.

The food wasn't bad. Whatever it was.

Following the meal, we returned to civilization at the bottom, mutilated a Nutella crepe (OMG), and returned to the ship. Still unaccustomed to the European clock, I slept almost 15 hours.

The Mediterranean Cruise Chonicles: Part I (Spain)

Day I

13 June 2012, Hesperia Towers Hotel, Barcelona

I hadn't gotten nauseated on flights in a while, but recently--and for whatever reason--my motion sickness has been taking a horrible turn. Landing in Barcelona was one of those painfully long descents and a "sickie's" worst nightmare. And unfortunately, that package of "natural" anti-motion sickness tablets I bought at Heathrow in September 2010 somehow made their way out of my purse. (That's a nice way of saying my dumb arse removed them when I underwent the purse de-hoarding process prior to the trip.)

Following the flight and a 25-minute tardy shuttle service to the hotel, we actually arrived early to our check-in. I vegetated on the lobby's very low and awkwardly-designed couches while Mike explored the city afoot. I was nearly asleep when the voice of a Spaniard woke me saying, "Hello, sohrry, your room es ready."

Hesperia Towers is a five-star hotel, very close to the airport, and a seemingly popular place for business meetings and negotiations--needless to say, it had an extremely modern feel, both inside and out. (*Promotion alert*) Although the food was obnoxiously expensive (though, good quality), we got this great deal by booking it through Priceline using Mike's family's frequent flyer miles. I was always suspicious of the frequent flyer program, but I couldn't complain about two free nights in Barcelona.

Not much else can be said about this day. I was escorted to the room and fell asleep before Mike showed up and followed suit.

Day II

14 June 2012, Barcelona City Center

After surrendering to locating the invisible Metro, Mike and I discovered a free shuttle service to take into the City Center for exploring the wonderful city of Barcelona. On the way there we observed that, aside from a few tree breeds, Barcelona looked a lot like Southern California. Didn't we just fly 14 hours to leave California?

Also, aside from learning that the price of most non-alcoholic beverages in Barcelona--and many other parts of Europe--is an arm and a leg cheaper than water, the City Center was beautiful, clean, and full of peaceful tourists and residents admiring the day's clear skies. Through all the narrow streets we stumbled upon a gazillion churches before finding Barcelona's main "Catedral," whose entrance fee was six euros a piece (roughly $15 total).

We paid, entered, and well...yay, it was a "Catedral"--a really big building full of religious stuff, like holy water, which Mike touched, hoping his skin wouldn't burn off for being a non-believer. (It didn't, but the water might have fizzed a tad.) We tried to break into--er, open--the confession booths, and even found stairs leading up to the area above the altar. We went up, photographed the view, and on the way down I slipped very charmingly on my arse, thanks to my cheap sandals from Old Navy. (Some would say pay-back's a bitch for disturbing religious property.) And that slip was the first of many.

After that, we walked around a lot and ate. We found the edge of the city (the port), where there were military buildings and a giant lobster. The restaurant where we had lunch played American music videos, and I kept having Mike look up from his food so he could gag at the sight of Rihanna and the Black Eyed Peas.

Anyway, we had a nice time being slightly mischievous. We returned, slept a lot, and looked forward to embarking on our cruise the next day.