On Forgetting the Point

A dear friend of mine once told me that if I started caring what people thought, I would never write another word in my life. Boy, was he right.

When I set out to write this blog, I did it with the intention of giving myself an outlet to write everyday. I was hoping to use this space as a means to hone my own voice, get my weird and crazy thoughts out of my head, and get my creative juices, which had long since dried up, flowing again (gross, but true). This was all going exceedingly well until I made that one carnal mistake – I started to care about what people thought.

The first entry went pretty smoothly as I was simply letting people know that I was going to be writing a blog, and was setting my goals for what I wanted to accomplish in writing said blog. However, after a few, well, rave reviews on how well I wrote the explanation about why I wanted to write a blog, I felt like my next entry had to hold up to those standards. This was despite the fact that I clearly stated in the initial explanation that I promised nothing out of this blog, especially the fact that it would be any good.

However, you and I both know that I never really meant that. Of course I wanted it to be good. In fact, I wanted it to be great! I wanted it to be the blog of all blogs. I wanted to win all sorts of Bloggy Awards, and get written up in Blog Weekly. I had fantasies of Oprah gracing the front page of each entry. I envisioned the E! Network approaching me about making a reality series all about me writing my blog, in which each episode I would come up with a new brilliant and witty idea for a blog entry. Seriously, it was going to be monumental.

Well, needless to say, none of these dreams have materialized (yet). In fact, this approach to what was supposed to be a mere exercise in creativity, ultimately, became destructive. After a few more entries, and a few more rounds of feedback (both positive and negative), it was no longer my own voice flowing out onto the page, but instead, the voice which I assumed people wanted to hear. I became so caught up in creating a voice that people would enjoy reading, that I lost track of the voice with which I actually enjoyed writing. And with that, I was paralyzed.

Let me be clear, I do realize I set myself up for this. As I stated in my first entry, I am more apt to write when I know someone is actually going to read what I have to say. The problem is, this sets up an impossible scenario which never truly allows me to just write for myself. However, at the end of the day, I truly enjoy sharing my thoughts and stories with people, and in return, hearing what they have to say back. I guess it makes the process of sitting behind this computer alone all day a little less, well, lonely. I guess I just have to find a way to have this be a conversation, just like any other. No pressure, no judgment, just talking. Well, just writing.

So, with this rambling little entry, which is more a clarification for myself, than it is an explanation for you, I hope to turn the tide, and allow my words to flow again. What I will say for you (or maybe it’s for me), is that with this new approach, expect to find more meaningless thoughts and random moments from my boring little life, and less sweeping theories on the world at large.

On Summer

THE HOUSE ON LAKE OSCAWANA, 1942

Summer is undoubtedly my favorite time of year. While I am sure I am not alone in this conviction, summer tends to mean something different for everyone, and that meaning tends to change through the stages of our lives. When we were kids, summer was three months of blissful freedom from any perceived obligations we may have had at that age – school, homework, bedtime, putting on a coat! As teenagers, restrictions on these free summer days were already being introduced with reading lists, SAT tests, and college applications. By college, we had summer jobs and internships that were hopefully setting us up for our futures, or at least making us a buck or two. And now, summer has been reduced to a shorter Friday here and there, and perhaps a few vacation days you may have saved up throughout the year. This is, unless you had the brilliant foresight to become a teacher – a profession that allows you to seem like you care about helping people when, really, you just picked a great vacation schedule. I did not. Still, summer is my favorite time of year.

As a child, my summers were spent at my family’s old country house on Lake Oscawana. The lake was an hour outside of Manhattan in a little town called Putnam Valley. While I absolutely loved it there, the house, which was about a thousand years old, scared the shit out of me. It was big and dark and made of stone. It had a huge wrap around porch that covered the entire front of the house, and kept any daylight from entering the interior of the first floor. There were big imposing beams that hung just below the ceilings, and the floors and stairs were made from old wood that creaked and moaned with your every move. The basement looked like a torture chamber from a horror movie, and the attic, which was equally terrifying, sat right across from my bedroom on the second floor of the house. To make matters worse, the house was haunted.

Our ghost’s name was June Webber, and she lived in the little apartment that sat above our kitchen. June inherited the house from the former owner, F.K. James, who not only owned our house, but also half of Lake Oscawana, and a well-known chain of drug stores called Whalen’s Drugs. This was, until he died in the 1960s, leaving all of his worldly possessions to his caretaker, June Webber. June, my family had decided, was in love with F.K. James, and fell into a deep depression after his death. Too sad to be in the other parts of the house where F.K. lived, June spent the rest of her days in her quarters above the kitchen, having only the company of her nine cats. According to some (my family), June stayed in that little apartment above the kitchen for nearly twenty years until she died…up there…above the kitchen…with her nine cats. A few years later, my parents bought the house from June’s brother, who was looking to unload it quickly. Little did they know that June was still living there, and every so often when there was a quiet moment in the kitchen or there was a bad thunderstorm, she could be heard walking around up in that little apartment. Even worse, it still reeked of her cats.

So what kid would enjoy spending summers in a haunted house that smelled like dead kitties? Well, truthfully, I didn’t spend much time indoors when I was there. The house sat on two and a half acres of partially wooded waterfront land that had a stream running from end to end. There was also a massive willow tree that sat smack in the middle of the front yard, with vines that hung almost all the way down to the ground. For a city kid, this kind of space was absolutely priceless.

I noticed early on that Putnam Valley nature was extremely different from Central Park nature, as I didn’t get my hand smacked every time I tried to pick something up and put it in my mouth. I was also allowed to dig wherever I wanted - another privilege that life in Manhattan never afforded a child. My personal favorite was digging for worms. One morning when I was four-years-old, my parents woke up to realize I was nowhere in sight. The only sign of me was the pajamas I wore to bed the night before that were tossed in a little pile in front of my bedroom. My parents spent nearly an hour looking for me, when finally they noticed the kitchen door was ajar. When they walked outside, they found me in the back yard completely naked and covered head to toe in dirt. In front of me was a hole, already about a foot deep. With a smile, I turned to my parents and proudly showed them what I had found. Two muddy handfuls of worms! It was bliss.

Putnam Valley, while a charming town, was not exactly a popular destination for a summer home. However, my parents wanted a place they could easily get to from Manhattan, as my father, an allergist, would commute into the city to see patients during weekdays. This, of course, baffled me. How on earth could he find anyone to treat? Nobody is going to be in the city. It’s summer! They will all surely be at camp. Adults are so stupid.

Since my father was in the city all week, my mother, who - God love her - does not have a domestic bone in her body, would hire a few extra hands to help out for the summer. Now, when I say “a few extra hands”, what I really mean is we would bunk up for the summer in our haunted house with, quite literally, a troupe of young, beautiful Brazilian woman. They were all also somehow related to each other, and apparently, to the former Miss Rio. Seriously, I’m pretty sure Lucia’s sister was Miss Rio.

I absolutely loved my new collection of nannies, especially Rosalie, who treated me like her little princess, and was responsible for giving me any girly bone I may have in my body. Born a natural tomboy, from an early age I gravitated towards sports and dirt, before clothes and dolls (that’s not to say I didn’t have my collection of Barbies who I would use for experimental haircuts, after which, they always ended up bald). Then came Rosalie. She showed me how to curtsy and walk like a lady. She told me that all little girls should take ballet, which started an eight-year ballet career. She dressed me in flowery dresses and put blush on my cheeks. She taught me how to be flirty and bat my eyes, but never easily accept an advance from a boy. She always made sure I finished my dinner, not because it was polite, but because I needed to eventually develop curves – something all real women should have. And at the ripe age of five, she had me walking around Lake Oscawana in a little string bikini that matched hers because anything more covering would just be silly. There is really no better teacher of how to be female than a Brazilian woman.

As you can imagine, in a place like Putnam Valley, where there was a local bar down the road called “Shecky’s Shack”, which had about fifteen Harleys parked out front at all times, our arrival with the Brazilians at the beginning of each summer caused quite a commotion. So while I spent my mornings at Camp Nabby, learning arts and crafts, relay races, and how to start a fire from sticks, I spent my afternoons unknowingly receiving an education on men and the lengths at which they will go to get the attention of a beautiful woman.

Back then I just thought our little corner of the lake was the most popular, as this was where all the boats seemed to congregate. I assumed that Tony, the guy behind the deli counter of the local market just liked to give away free meat. I also figured that Joe, the man who always offered to give us a lift back to the house, even though it was fifteen minutes out of his way, was just being neighborly. I did find it strange that the gardener always seemed to take his shirt off just as we were walking past him, but I concluded that he just always got hot…right then. It wasn’t until later in my life that I realized just what these men were after. Luckily, when it came time for me to be offered the free meat, I could see right through it.

As the years passed, and my brother, Aaron, and I got old enough to look out for ourselves, the Brazilians eventually stopped coming. While at times I missed them, I was a kid, and it only took an ice cream cone or two to help me move on. It was especially easy with the arrival of the Sadek family.

I was seven and Aaron was nine, when the Sadeks moved into a house about a quarter mile down the road, and about a hundred yards across the water. They had a daughter my age and a son Aaron’s, a match-up that worked out perfectly. Bec and Zach quickly became our summer best friends, and for many summers to come, the four of us were rarely seen separately. In the mornings we all carpooled together to camp, and when we returned in the afternoons, it was only a matter of minutes before one pair of siblings had hopped on their bikes and ridden over to the other’s house. Generally, it was Aaron and I that ended up at the Sadek’s house, as the water in their part of the lake was seaweed-free, and their mom could cook.

The four of us spent our days playing endless games; some made up, and some well known. However, the one that is most memorable for me, and perhaps for all of us, was our annual end-of-summer Teich vs. Sadek triathlon. The race was broken down into the traditional three legs, which could be split between brother and sister as seen fit. Of course, Aaron took two of the legs and I was left to do my best in whatever portion he felt I had best trained for that summer.

The first leg was the bike (we didn’t know the proper order of an actual triathlon) from our house to their house. This included biking up the “monster”, a steep hill that sat right outside our driveway, and took me two years to get strong enough to reach the top without walking. Next, was the run from their house to our house, the leg of the race I was most often assigned as I was actually quite a fast runner. The final portion of the race was a swim from our house to theirs, a feat so nearly impossible, I almost always let Aaron do it.

The first year of the triathlon was pretty much just a dare. However, after the Sadeks lost to us that first summer, they insisted on a rematch the next year. By the year after that, formal invitations were sent out to our parents, friends, and extended family to come witness this awesome event.

I don’t remember what year it was when the last race took place. Just as I can’t really remember when we stopped spending our entire summers with the Sadeks. But eventually, it did stop. Some headed off to sleep-away camp, some to sports camp, and I discovered horses and spent my remaining teenage summers riding them. Before too long, my parents sold the old house on Oscawana and moved to a newer, ghost-free model on a lake near by, Lake Mahopac.

It is there that I now grab at any semblance of summer I can find; a luxury that seems to become more elusive with every passing year. Between work, weddings, and other adult-like obligations, my entire summer is now completely scheduled end to end. I used to think a schedule was something summer was supposed to be free of, but as I get older, I realize that is an impossible dream. Even as children, we were on a schedule, we just weren’t the ones who had to keep it.

I hope I can come to a point in my life when I give myself the chance to have a true summer again. I don’t think becoming a teacher is the answer, as I should not be trusted with the lives of small children, or anyone, for that matter. Perhaps it's just a matter of holding onto the memory of what summer once was; a time when we could truly let ourselves go and find joy in something as simple as digging in the dirt for worms. I am hopeful that I can find my way back to that place, but if I can’t, I am confident that summer will still remain my favorite time of year.

Now if only it would stop raining…

On Manhattan

I am one of those rare breeds of people who was actually born and raised on this island. Not that I really consider myself rare, as there are quite literally millions of other people who grew up here as well. However, I have come to find that evolving into a normal, functioning human being after having grown up in Manhattan seems to be considered an anomaly by most. It wasn’t until I got to college when I even realized there was anything particularly exceptional about growing up in New York City. However, after some surprisingly shocked reactions to stories about my upbringing, I realized that not many people were raised in such an environment.

I began to think that maybe it was, in fact, a bit unusual that my elementary school's playground was on the roof of a building, and that gym class was held in Central Park twice a week so that we had a chance to interact with "nature". However, in "nature" would a police officer come tell you and your friend, Jenny, that it is, in fact, illegal to build a tree house in your very favorite tree; even after you had dragged several pieces of plywood from Broadway, all the way down 92nd street, and into the middle of the park?

Maybe not every kid went trick-or-treating inside a building, or, for that matter, chose a friend based on the size of her building, and how much candy you could potentially collect if said friend happened to invite you over for Halloween. Perhaps it was a little strange that, each morning, it was my doorman, Benji, who vigilantly watched me walk the block to school to make sure I arrived there safely. And maybe not everyone was friends with a homeless man named Alan who lived on their block, who also happened to be the subject of one of their brother's college essays.

It was certainly hard to imagine that most people weren't half-raised by a Belizean woman named Geraldine, who would dangle you by your feet and drop you into a warm bath head-first, chase you around with a butcher knife when you acted up (all in good fun, of course), and later in life tell you that you needed to date a man with "some meat on them bones." These were all things I considered to be fairly standard until I began to spend some time outside of New York City, and realized that most people don't really grow up under such circumstances.

I have found there are two types of people who grow up in New York. There are the people who believe that New York is the absolute center of the world and could never imagine living anywhere else. Then there are the people who leave at their first opportunity to get out, and subsequently spend the rest of their lives trying to NOT live in New York. I belong to the second group. The problem is, no matter how many times I actually manage to leave, or how hard I try to stay away, I always end up right back where I started: Manhattan.

Don't get me wrong, I can see why people idolize this city. I can see why they think it's the center of the world, because it is in so many ways. I can see how the pizza alone would make a person never want to leave this little island. I can see how someone could feel like they were constantly missing out on the pulse of life by living anywhere else. I can even see how some people may find it exhilarating to know that there is a 67% chance they will be peed on, cursed at, or killed by a crazy cab driver, just by leaving the house! Yes, New York is undoubtedly an exciting world of possibility.

However, it’s all just too much for me. While possibilities and choices are obviously blessings in life, when provided with too many of them, these blessings can very quickly transform into a curse. Just figuring out where to eat dinner with three friends on a Tuesday night in New York can become an unbelievably stressful task unto itself. That is if you can even find that many people free in one night. Getting four people together for a meal in Manhattan generally takes months of planning. Then there’s the picking of the restaurant.

What kind of food? What neighborhood? Is that place expensive? You saw whom there? It’s called Sweat? Why would anyone name a restaurant Sweat? I’ve never heard of that chef. No, I don’t really feel like Bangladeshian food tonight, also, the F train is too far from my apartment. Can we just grab some pizza? Obviously not. It’s just too much!!!

I think it is this abundance of possibility that gives people the feeling they will be missing out on an entire lifetime if they leave Manhattan for even five minutes. However, with so many things to do, see, and eat at all hours of each day, I feel like I am constantly missing out on something anyway just by making a simple choice of which party to go to on a Friday night (generally I am invited to hundreds, as you may expect). It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do, there is always something better, more exciting, and, for sure, much cooler than what I am doing at any given moment. And, God forbid, I choose to stay in one night with a cup of tea and The Little Mermaid. That is pretty much considered suicide in Manhattan.

I fully understand that such a world of endless possibility can actually be incredibly exciting and creates an undeniable energy that buzzes through every inch of this city. However, the fact that it makes my head spin on a daily basis is exactly the reason I should not be living in Manhattan. There are many people who were built for such a place, and at one point in my life, I may have even been disguised as one of them. However, it’s time to admit it. It’s time to say the one thing you are never supposed to ever say in Manhattan.

I can’t keep up.

Just Another Blog

Another blog. Just what the world needs, right? Someone else adding to the clutter of this already overpopulated digital world. What's worse, I haven't even come up with something shiny and new to add to the collection. It's just another blog. Everyone and their mother has a blog these days, and pretty much any subject you could think of is already being blogged about. The other day I came across a blog that was all about edible arrangements. Not that I have anything against edible arrangements - especially if they involve cookies or chocolate (although flowers made of melon freak me out a little). However, if there is a blog completely dedicated to edible arrangements, I have to assume that pretty much all subjects are being covered. What could I possibly have to say that isn't already being said? Truthfully, I'm not really sure. I haven't yet come across a blog about the migration patterns of the South American Fruit Fly, but that's not really a subject I am too interested in covering. I also have not found any blogs dedicated to the happenings of Garry Coleman's daily life, but that would take a lot of research and I don't want to violate my restraining order...again.

So if everyone and their mom is already blogging about everything and anything that could possibly be blogged about, and I am not really sure what I would have to say, then why am I even bothering with starting a blog in the first place? I think there are a few reasons.

For factors that are far too long and complicated to get into here, I have landed myself back in New York and in a job that, at least by my standards, is completely uncreative. I essentially spend my days trying to sell bits of paper, and use a calculator far more often than I would ever care to. Considering the current state of the economy, I am aware of how lucky I am to even have a job, however, I figure that is no reason to stop pursuing my passions; or more accurately, to call off the search for what exactly I am passionate about.

Writing is something I have always loved. At times, I have even been told I am good at it. However, for one reason or another, I have never really let myself consider writing as something I could do, like, for real. Or maybe even for, like, money. I have made attempts here and there, but when I finally sit down at my computer, after a nice solid self pep talk and a few shots of whiskey, it only takes a few sentences before those pesky judgmental thoughts start crawling around in my brain. In fact, that's exactly what's happening right now.

This is a terrible idea. Edible arrangements? Really, Aly? That's not funny. And I think I misused that semicolon back there. Is that even a sentence? Is this even making sense? Did I remember to record So You Think You Can Dance? I really need to start cleaning my computer screen. A real writer would keep her computer screen clean. That rhymes. Haha. Okay, that's not really funny either. Nobody is going to read this crap. How self-indulgent am I? I should have never started a blog!!!

A few weeks ago, I decided that I needed to find a way to stop the questions and see, once and for all, if I really wanted to spend my days writing, and moreover, if I was actually any good at it. Then I found my inspiration. Dave had just enrolled in a bankruptcy and restructuring class at NYU. Not that there is anything particularly inspirational about bankruptcy, or restructuring, for that matter. It was the class part that got me thinking. That's not such a bad idea! After a little look-around on the NYU website, I found a ten-week creative writing course, and signed myself up!

As part of the course, I have to write SOMETHING everyday. It doesn't really matter what form it takes, what it's about, or even what language it's in (actually, I will have to double check on that last bit). All that matters is that I write words down and that I do it each day.

Of course, most people in the class opted to write a journal if they were not already doing so. However, I have never really been able to keep up a journal. I know this is strange coming from someone who is actually considering spending a good portion of her time writing, but I just can't seem to do it. I have made many strong efforts, but inevitably, after a few days, the journal ends up lost under a pile of People magazines next to my bed. One time I even purposely hid it from myself in order to have an excuse not to write in it. How could I write in my journal if I didn't even know where it was?

This is where the blog comes in. I tend to be better about writing when I know someone is actually going to be reading what I write. Not that I am expecting many people to read this blog, but the possibility of a reader could just be enough to make me put some effort into it. And, actually, I am confident that I can pull in at least a few followers.

My mother will surely read my blog, as she has just recently discovered the computer and will find pretty much any excuse to use it. My boyfriend and I live together so he has to read it, as I don't think he wants to deal with the ramifications of not having an answer when I ask him each night what he thought about my blog that day. My professor will probably read it a few times to make sure I am, in fact, writing every day before kicking me out of his class due to complete lack of competence. My siblings may also check in just to have something else to give their little sister a hard time about. Not to mention, their kids will surely be looking for any opportunity to tell their Auntie Aly she said a bad word...again. So there you have it, my family, my boyfriend-slash-roommate, and my teacher. A fairly strong subscription list, I think. Or I would like to think. Or I will keep telling myself.

As you may notice, this is not, in fact, a completely new blog. I actually started this blog last year to give a sampling of some of the writing I did while Dave and I were traveling. Since we were going to be spending a large portion of our time away in Israel, I decided an appropriate title for the blog would be Stories from the Promised Land and Beyond. While, I considered starting a completely fresh blog with a completely fresh title, after some thought, I realized that the title was actually appropriate for this journey of self discovery I was about to embark on. That, and I was just too lazy to re-register with Blogspot.

Despite the title, you should know that I am actually not promising a thing out of this blog. I don't promise it will be meaningful or prolific. I don't promise it will be funny. I don't promise that it will make sense. I don't promise intelligence, insight, or inspiration. I don't promise to solve any world problems or cure any diseases. I don't promise it will stop CNN from considering Kim Kardashian's last twitter about her cellulite is a worthy piece of news. I don't even promise that in a week's time I won't decide this was a terrible idea and choose to fully focus on my ABC gum collection instead. And I certainly don't promise it will be any good.

What I can offer are my stories, my thoughts, my observations, and my attempts at humor. And yes, I am aware that I find myself funnier than most other people do, but that's part of my charm, isn't it? I think it is. Mostly, I want to use this blog as a place to hone my voice and see how other people respond to it.

With that said, here I go into this little corner of the world wide web. I hope you will come for a visit and see what I have to show. I do please ask that you share your thoughts, as your feedback is my most valued measure to see if I do, in fact, have a voice that people would like to hear more of.

And with that, I leap...

The Ferry Ride from Hell

Greetings from Dubrovnik, Croatia!

I know I still owe you a proper entry about Italy, and intend to do so as soon as I have a few minutes. However, right now I want to tell you about our lovely little day of travel yesterday. Also, just a little side note, these hilarious Croatians thought it would be a funny game to play on unsuspecting tourists to switch the "z" and the "y" on the keyboard. I will try my best to adjust, but please excuse any mistakes. Thank zou☺

We left Positano yesterday morning on a wonderful ferry that took us along the Amulfi Coast and landed us in Solerno, which is just north of Sicily. From there, we caught a two-hour train to another small town (of course I cant remember the name...must remember to use my journal!). From there we took a three-hour Eurostar train to Bari where we would catch our overnight ferry to Croatia. Needless to say, it was already a long day.

When we arrived in Bari it was windy and rainy, as we headed to the port to buy our ferry tickets. We had been weighing between actually getting a cabin for the nine-hour overnight ride to Dubrovnik or just toughing it out on deck, hoping we could find a bench or a worthy area of the floor to sleep on. Seeing as the cabins were extremely expensive and I was still trying to prove to Dave (and myself) that I was the tough backing girl I strove to be, we decided to go for the deck passes. We figured we had arrived in Bari early enough to be one of the first on board the ship, and would surely be able to secure a good spot for the night. Even better, we had met a group of young British backpackers at the port who kindly offered us their sleeping bags as they had splurged for a cabin. We were so excited about our good fortune thus far, we hadn’t even noticed that the weather was beginning to really pick up. We barely even blinked at the fact that the “ship” we were about to board was not a ship at all, but more like a rundown version of the Staten Island ferry. However, instead of crossing the Hudson River, this vessel was supposed to carry us across the Adriatic Sea. Still, we didn’t think twice. We merrily climbed the ramp up into the side of the boat with our backpacks and newly acquired sleeping bags in tow.

We boarded the ferry at 8:30 PM and everything was going perfectly according to plan. Dave had found a common room on the boat where there were booths with soft, couch-like benches and tables. At this point, we did begin to notice that the boat was perhaps a bit more run down than the nice ferries we took in Greece, but it was nothing to write home about (or so I thought). The boat was not scheduled to disembark until 10 PM, so we figured we had plenty of time to have a drink, relax, and settle in before curling up with our cozy sleeping bags for a restful eight hours of sleep.

After about an hour, things started to turn a bit. Our peaceful sleeping cove was slowly but surely becoming the amusement park for every passenger on the boat. The majority of them appeared to be Croatian or of some other Eastern European descent, and all somehow seemed to be related to one another. Perhaps they were on their way home from a family reunion in Bari, although I am not sure who they would be reuniting with as it seemed that anyone they could have possibly been related to was already on that boat. In any case, they were loud, obnoxious, and extremely smelly. As was the yippy little family dog who was also along for the reunion and nearly ripped the hands off of every person that walked by. Still, at this point in the early evening, it was all actually quite amusing.

Then the boat began to move. Within fifteen minutes we knew this was going to be a rough ride. Drinks were spilling and people were falling over in their chairs as the wind and rain continued to pick up. The members of the family reunion seemed to be extremely amused by the apparent carnival ride they thought we were on. The harder the boat rocked, the louder they got. Still, I was rather amused. Then the sea sickness set in. Not me. Everyone else. Almost every singly person in that room (and all over the boat), one by one, began to lose their stomachs, and lost them everywhere. Some into garbage cans, some into seasickness bags, but most, unfortunately, went right onto the floor. I had never seen (or smelled) anything like it.

You also have to realize that, at this point, the weather was so rough outside that there was no option to even stick your head out the door for some air. The wind was so strong that the doors wouldn’t even open. Your only option for air was to stick your head out the little round window above the toilet in the bathroom. That is if you were willing to stand over, or in some cases on, someone throwing up into the toilet. I’m telling you it was madness.

It was at about this point that Dave, too, started to look rather green. He decided to go downstairs to see if we could still book a cabin and try to escape the episode of Twilight Zone we had found ourselves in. When he returned, having obviously gotten sick, he was stark white and soaked with sweat. He informed me that he had booked a room and that he needed to go there…NOW! I told him to go ahead without me, that I would take care of our luggage which was in the storage room, and that I would have the ship attendant show me to the room in a few minutes.

Looking back, we didn’t really need our luggage, nor was it worth the near-death experience I had in that storage room. Not only did the sliding door that opened the luggage room slide back and close onto my hand, but I was nearly taken out by several suitcases that were thrown from their shelves. Somehow I managed to find our packs, throw both of them on my back, and mak it out with only a few scratches and bruises.

I then went to find the woman who was supposed to show me to our room. She also happened to be the only employee on the boat other than the Captain and the bartender, who could have been the same person. I’m still not sure. In any case, when I finally found this woman, she was in the reception area gripping her desk for dear life and crossing herself repeatedly. I asked her if she was alright and if it was usually this rough, to which she replied, “No! It never this rough! Not like this!” Then I asked her if it was dangerous, to which she replied, “Dangerous? I not know what this mean.” So I made a sign with my hands of a boat going under water, to which she replied, “I just want to make it home tomorrow.” I told her she may not want to say that to anyone else and asked her to please show me to my room. So we both made our way down the skinny corridor, gripping the walls for dear life as not to fall over.

When I finally reached the tiny room, I found Dave coming out of the little bathroom and looking even worse. He couldn’t even say a word to me. He simply swayed his way over to the bottom bunk bed and curled up onto its mattress. He was soaked to the bone and shivering. At that point, I was about ready to lose it, but still managed to stay focused on helping Dave. I plopped on the floor, dug through his bag, got out some dry clothes, and got him changed. Somehow, he then managed to roll over and go to sleep. It was at that moment I did lose it. All of my fear finally caught up with me and I sat there crying on the floor of that tiny little cabin as the boat continued to slam into the tumultuous water.

The only thing that matched my fear, was my exhaustion. I considered just sleeping right there on the floor as it felt much more grounded, but I figured I would at least try to get some sleep and crawled up into the top bunk. Now, to give you an idea of how rough it was, I literally had to hang onto the ends of the mattress for dear life, as not to be thrown off of the top bunk. There was also a little window in the room, out of which I could see the waves crashing over the top of the boat. The noises were almost more scary than the sights. The boat would creek and screech as it rode up the face of each wave, and then let out a mighty roar as it came crashing down on the other side. It was truly terrifying.

This is how the next four hours went, until Dave woke up and must have heard me whimpering on the top bunk. He told me to climb down and sleep with him in the lower bunk. This was something I wanted to do hours earlier, but didn’t want to wake him since he had been so sick. I made my way down the ladder and curled up next to him. The waters had still not calmed, but I have to say I suddenly felt safe. Finally, I nodded off to sleep and when I awoke we were smoothly sailing along towards the Dalmatian Coast which was now in sight. We were almost there.

We gathered our things and headed out to finally disembark from the vessel of death we had been trapped on all night. We walked out into the hallway and joined the hoards of other people who had obviously also had the night from hell. Everyone was disheveled and green-looking, and still had a slightly terrified flash in their eyes. Nobody really said anything. There wasn't much to be said. Shared looks and nods were all that was needed.

When we finally touched our feet onto the solid shore, some people actually got down on their knees and kissed the ground. We made it. I still don't know how I managed not to get sick. Maybe I was too busy being scared shitless to bother with nausea. In any case, I think I earned at least a few tough backpacker points last night.

We now find ourselves safely in Dubrovnik which seems to be absolutely beautiful (even from just our short walk down to Old Town to get breakfast). We are going to head back to our little guest room now and try to sleep off this feeling that we are still on the boat. The computer screen is literally swaying in front of me.

The moral of the story is, if you are going to cross the Adriatic…fly.

Okay, off for a nap and then some exploring. I will write again when I can.

Ciao Bella!

Unfortunately, I don't have time to write a proper entry on Rome right now. What I will tell you is that I have been here for three days and am madly, truly, deeply in love with this city. I should also tell you that I am going to need to buy some bigger clothes due to the three dinners per night we have been eating. The past three days in Rome have been a magical world wind of sights, food, wine, and gelato. It has been pure unabashed gluttony. I give all of the credit to our hostess (my good friend from college, Ginny) for showing us an unbelievable time.

Today we are hopping on a train and heading down to Naples where we plan to spend two hours for the simple purpose of seeking out the "world's best pizza" (we'll see!). After we stuff ourselves silly, we will hop back on the train and head to Sorrento for a few days before moving onto the rest of the Amulfi coast. I will try to send an update from there, but in the mean time, here are some pictures to enjoy.

I love and miss you all!

Fabulous Italian/American/Polish Brunch at the WB

The Colosseum

View Over Vatican City

Dave and I Tossing Coins into Trevi Fountain
(This is supposed to ensure your return to Rome)

Inside St. Peter's Basilica

Trying to Fit in with the Fountains

Ginny Joins the Fun

Dave Couldn't Resist

Santorini, Properly...

Roof of Church

Hi Everyone!

When I sat down to write this blog, I fully intended to apologize for not writing more often. However, after some though I have a)just accepted the fact that I am not going to be able to update this blog as much as I would like (I hope you can accept that, too) and b)I’m quite happy with the fact that I am out experiencing my trip instead of spending hours behind a computer telling you about it. That's not to say I don't love sharing my adventures with everyone, but I have found myself stressing over not writing as much lately and that's not good! Hopefully you and I can find a happy medium.

As I am sure you could tell, I did not come close to doing Santorini justice in my last blog. So while I am currently sitting in my friend Ginny's beautiful apartment in beautiful Rome, I am going to write a post about beautiful Santorini. Don't worry, then I will tell you about beautiful Rome.

I am one of those people who would prefer to see a films I know nothing and have heard nothing about. I often find myself pleasantly surprised with these films. When a movie has been built up too much, or even worse, I find out that Angelina Jolie dies in the end, my movie-going experience tends to be generally disappointing. This was my fear in going to Santorini. I had heard and read so much about how stunning Santorini is and about it's impressive Caldera. To make matters worse, my brother, Aaron, and his wife, Kelly, had been to Santorini just two summers ago on their honeymoon and not only raved about it, but had shown me all of their pictures. Needless to say, I was preparing myself for possible disappointment. Impossible. Santorini really is one of the most breathtaking places I have ever seen, and this is largely due to the Caldera.

Dave Looking Over the Caldera

Now, what's the story with this Caldera? The modern island of Santorini is the result of an earth shattering volcanic eruption. In @%*$ BC (or was it AD?). The volcano that resided in the center of the island, formerly known as "the round one" as it looked like a big disc, erupted causing one of the biggest explosions in the history of the earth. Hot lava and ash spewed 35 kilometers into the sky and tsunamis traveled as far as Israel and Asia Minor. The eruption also caused the center of the island to drop out and the waters of the Aegean to fill in. Thus, forming what is now known as the Caldera. A few smaller eruptions and some earthquakes along the way finished off the job, but the result is something along the lines of Big Sur on steroids, but in the middle of the Aegean Sea. It also offers up the most beautiful (and famous) sunsets, dare I say, in the world! It is worth every bit of hype.

View of the Caldera

When Dave and I arrived in Santorini we, once again, had not yet booked a place to stay. We decided to go with the trusty "Greek" way of doing things and just pick a place amongst the hoards of hotel owners the would surely greet us at the port. It worked out beautifully in Paros, so we figured this was the way to go in Santorini. What a mistake. To make a long story short, we were talked into staying at a place one what I call "the wrong side" of Santorini (aka the non-Caldera side) in Perrissa beach. For those of you heading to Santorini, DO NOT make this mistake. Not only does it take 45 minutes (not the short 15 minutes the hotel owners claims) to get to any view of the Caldera or to get into Fira (the main town), but Perissa is an unexciting and slightly dirty place. Also, don't be drawn in by the "black sand beach" as it's not very nice. What I will say is that you can find VERY cheap places to stay on that side of the island, but you can also find cheap places just outside the town of Fira where you will be in walking distance to an exciting town and full views of the Caldera.

After quickly discovering that we were, in fact, on the wrong side of the island, Dave and I spent our first evening in Santorini driving around on a moped trying to find a new place to stay. As our luck goes (we have exceedingly good luck with finding wonderful and affordable places to stay) we stumbled upon a very simple and pretty hotel called The Butterfly Villas which is RIGHT ON THE CALDERA!!! For only 80 euro a night (trust me that is CHEAP for a Caldera view) we got a beautiful little studio with a kitchenette and a balcony that looked right out over the Caldera. It was breathtaking. The only problem with Butterfly Villas is that only one person who works there actually speaks English, making it nearly impossible to get any information out of them. Even our poor attempts at Greek didn’t seem to help the lack in communication. I requested fresh towels for the bathroom and we were brought coffee. Dave asked where we could catch the bus into town and the man behind the desk came around and hugged him. We needed a new plan.

Enjoying the View from the Butterfly Terraces

Luckily, there is an even nicer hotel right next door called The Volcano View, which we could not afford, but were perfectly happy to use for everything else besides a room. We used their internet, had them call us cabs into town, booked excursions with their concierge, and enjoyed mimosas at their complimentary and very delicious breakfast. It worked out just perfectly. In fact, after a few days we were even getting waves and nods from the our “fellow guests” as they began to recognize us.

So we blissfully woke up each morning to greet the Caldera, headed next store for some breakfast, headed back to our hotel to lay by the pool with a beer in hand, talking about how wonderful our lives were. Then we would make our way back to the room just in time to watch the sun set over the Caldera while sitting on our balcony with a bottle of local wine and some savory cheese from the food stall just up the road. Not too shabby.

Wine and Cheese Part on Our Balcony

We also spent some time exploring the towns of Fira and Oia. Fira is the place you want to be for energy and nightlife. However, be forewarned that the nasty beast called tourism has sunk its claws deep into Fira. The little streets are lined with shops that, for the most part, offer predictable and overpriced souvenirs and designer diggs. There are some good food options in Fira, but steer clear of most restaurants that line the Caldera. You will overpay for some pretty mediocre food. Not to mention you will also get charged a “sitting fee” for the view. This is not actually explained to you when you sit down, of course. Instead, when you inevitably ask what the mysterious extra charge is on your bill, your waiter simply points to the minuscule print at the very bottom of the menu. This is not to say that every restaurant in Fira is out to rip you off, however, I would advise to dine with caution. The general rule seemed to be that the food gets better tasting and more affordable as you move away from the Caldera views.

Dave and I with View of Fira Behind Us

Fira at Night

As for Oia, what it lacks in excitement, it more than makes up for in romanticism and beauty. Dave and I headed to Oia for our last night (also his birthday night) to watch a sunset. Yes, another fucking sunset. However, this really was the mother of them all as Oia is world famous for its sunsets. Thinking we were so very clever, we snuck onto a rooftop trying to avoid the hoards of people that had already been gathered for hours in anticipation for the sun to start setting. About 10 minutes later we were told by a local restaurant manager that we needed to move. We tried to protest, but when he told us it was his roof, well, we couldn’t really argue. By this point all the cafes were jam-packed and every bit of stonewall to sit on was filled. So Dave and I found ourselves watching the most beautiful sunset I have ever seen in my life while sitting in a garbage dump...literally. When the sun just began to turn that deep reddish orange, I had almost forgot about the fact that I was using an old mop as a cushion. It was definitely an experience. At the end of the sunset people actually cheered as if the earth had just put on a show just for us. I, too, jumped up and cheered. I wasn’t quite sure if I was cheering for the beauty of the sunset, cheering for the other people who were also cheering, or just cheering because I would have otherwise been sitting at my desk back in California plugging away on an ordinary Tuesday evening. I think it was everything. Then I picked a chicken bone off the back of my dress and headed into town to find some wine and birthday cake.

Sunset in Oia

Crowd Watching Sunset in Oia

Oia at Night

The next morning we caught an early flight to Athens where we had an 8 hour lay-over before heading to Rome. Dave and I decided we would hang at the airport instead of heading back into Athens for the day. This way Dave could get some work done and I could try to get some much needed sleep (we had watched the sun come up two nights earlier and had gotten three hours of sleep the night before). I am sad this day was my last impression of Greek people.

I am starting to become a better traveler as I have FINALLY learned how to sleep anywhere (as long as I am laying down, that is). This was something I always aspired to be able to do and envied those who had this amazing ability. So I was actually quite happy with the prospect of a day at the airport where I could just find myself a little bench or row of chairs and curl up with my sweatshirt for a few hours of much-needed zzz. Little did I know that every employee of the Athens airport was part of a conspiracy not to let me sleep that day. My first attempt at sleep was on a padded bench at a table Dave and I were sitting at in a little coffee shop. Perfect! It was soft and I could be close to Dave. I had put my head down (not even putting my feet up!) for five-minutes when the cleaning lady came over and starting yelling "trouble! trouble!" at me. I guess I understood that sleeping in the coffee shop was not really kosher (even at the airport), so I took my sweatshirt and went searching for an open bench. I walked to an empty part of the terminal and found a row of open airport chairs that were calling my name. I got myself settled in and fell right to sleep. However, I was abruptly awoken, this time by an official airport worker, yelling "Good morning" at me and then telling me that this terminal was too busy and I couldn’t take up an entire row of chairs. I lifted my head up to look around at all the people and there was NOBODY there! I shared my observation with her and told her I desperately needed to sleep and if she could just please let me alone for another hour. She then threatened to call security and I was just too tired to deal with that hassle. So, once again, I grabbed my sweatshirt and headed back to the coffee shop to find Dave. Instead of sleep I chose books and caffeine and for the next 3 hours I sat there secretly cursing the entire country until we finally boarded our flight to Rome.

Goodbye Greece!