Day III15 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.
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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.
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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.
