Today marks the second full month of my time here in London. In total, it has been 2 months, three weeks, 31 blog posts, approximately 4 nervous breakdowns, 1 broken washing machine, about 50 calls home to my mom (about 5 of which involved crying), 1 anti-American rant from a psycho, 3 root touchups, 4 foreign countries (excluding England), 5 “blind dates” with second-degree friends, and a handful of trains to the English countryside.
But who’s counting.
Well, I am, actually, in case you didn’t notice. I even have the months marked on my calendar all the way up to a year. Why? I’m not sure. Possibly because I’m a lunatic who has always counted the passage of time like it was some sort of achievement (I used to count weeks of high school using the very popular temporal measurement unit of “New BH 90210 Episodes”), but more likely I think I’m awaiting that Magic Time When I Feel Settled.
People keep telling me about this concept. When I first announced I was moving, my boss (a former London expat himself) told me, “It will take you six months to feel completely comfortable there.” I would have operated under this assumption, anxiously awaiting December 10th (but really, who’s counting) when I would wake up to find that I’d sprouted an affected Madonna-esque British pseudo-accent, a bizarre addiction to Builder’s tea, and an insatiable appetite for mushy peas and meat baked in pies, but then I wouldn’t have taken into account the million other opinions I have heard since.
Everyone seems to have a theory. Six months, three months, a year (God help me). Just last weekend, I was informed that for the first six months, I would be wrapped up in all of the excitement, and for the next three, I would be really annoyed by the frustration and difficulty that is living in London, and then I’d get over it and be fine. According to that formula, I should be hating life in the dead of London winter (and if this “summer” is any indication of what winter has in store, that sounds about right).
Despite all this prophesizing, sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel really truly settled. I’m not sure. I can’t imagine a time when I don’t yearn for my friends—the irreplaceable touchstones who have known me for more than a decade and understand me in the context of our shared histories. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to reconcile certain things, like the distance from my parents, the stiff tank tops, or the rain mygodtherain.
But maybe that’s ok. I have good days and bad days, just like I would if I were anywhere, and the good far outweigh the bad. People keep telling me (usually the same ones who like to guess my settle-by date) that I’m “brave” for having taken this step…but I wasn’t. The moving, the living here…it was never difficult for me (well, the moving was, but mostly just physically and um, rodent-ly).
The difficult part for me, and what's always been difficult for me in every aspect of life, is the waiting patiently…I want everything to fall into place instantly, and when it doesn’t, my instinct is to count months like a bored prisoner until it does.
The truth is: There is no magic date. I know it, you know it, Madonna knows it. Sure, there are moments when I stop and realize I haven’t thought about the fact that I’m in a foreign country for 10 minutes, an hour, a day (well maybe I’m not quite at a day yet, but it’s imminent I can feel it) and those moments come faster and more frequent all of the time. And if I can just hang in there (possibly for the first few months of the NEW 90210 THAT I’M MISSING BECAUSE I’M NOT IN THE U.S.!!) eventually, even if i don't wake up British, I'll at least wake up home.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Don't be ridiculous, Charles died 20 years ago!
My friend Megdon always says that being in London is like being stuck in a Harry Potter movie. She has a point. Sometimes I just wish that my American friends were around when I hear or witness something so laughably, stereotypically British that I want someone to commiserate with….like a really exaggerated posh accent, or a man wearing an outfit befitting Sherlock Holmes (complete with fob watch), or a little kid tugging on his mom’s skirt in the grocery store, saying, “Mummy, may I have a lolly? It’s only 20p!” (Seriously, kids with British accents are just funny).
Obviously, these moments are becoming fewer and farther between as my time here marches on, and I grow desensitized to the muggles (by the way, there is an actual Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross station for you die-hards). Still, every now and then, I’m struck by the blatant British-ness of it all, and more often than not, it’s quite entertaining.
This weekend was one of those times…only it wasn’t Hogwartsian so much as it was Four Weddings and Funeral-esque. Out in the English countryside with a group of 12 friends, I wouldn’t have been surprised if a bumbling Hugh Grant had come knocking on the door, demanding a pint and a fag.
Adding to the whole wedding thing was the fact that we were there for a joint hen and stag do (translation: a joint bachelor and bachelorette party) for Alex’s friends Christy and Jason over a bank holiday weekend (translation: a three-day weekend). We stayed on an estate in a town called Church Stretton in Shropshire, which is very far northwest of London on the English/Welsh border. I didn’t know it at the time, but we had to change trains in Wales, a country I had never been to (or even really thought about save for Catherine Zeta-Jones’/Charlotte Church’s repeated public references to it).
I’m going to admit my ignorance here now, but did anyone else know about the proliferation of the Welsh language in the country? I thought maybe it was like Gaelic…it’s there but no one really speaks it. Even though I read (I’m a nerd) that only 21% of the population actually speaks Welsh anymore, they seem hell-bent on keeping it alive, putting it on all street signs and announcing trains in both languages. I admired the dedication, so I took this pic (also, like Glasgow, I wanted to prove I was there).
(I resisted the urge to ask if anyone had any gwybodaeth on Casnewydd.)
Once we arrived in Church Stretton, we were driven out to the boondocks to a working farm. As the best man, Alex had been responsible for the accommodations, and he did an amazing job finding a 6-bedroom recently renovated former barn with a huge banquet table inside, a great outdoor dining area, a fully stocked kitchen, and a great backyard.
The weather was, for once, agreeable ("Is it raining? I hadn't noticed."), which was great for our planned Sports Day. We played a full day's worth of a Girls-Against-Boys competition of grade school games, like three-legged man race, egg and spoon race, space hopper race, etc (no Quidditch). I took a time lapse video of some of the action. Hopefully you'll get the gist....We were all sore the next day (that wheelbarrow race is a killer).
Pretty nice, eh? It was a great weekend, full of fun times, sunny weather, and many laughs...and fortunately, not a single funeral.
Obviously, these moments are becoming fewer and farther between as my time here marches on, and I grow desensitized to the muggles (by the way, there is an actual Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross station for you die-hards). Still, every now and then, I’m struck by the blatant British-ness of it all, and more often than not, it’s quite entertaining.
This weekend was one of those times…only it wasn’t Hogwartsian so much as it was Four Weddings and Funeral-esque. Out in the English countryside with a group of 12 friends, I wouldn’t have been surprised if a bumbling Hugh Grant had come knocking on the door, demanding a pint and a fag.
Adding to the whole wedding thing was the fact that we were there for a joint hen and stag do (translation: a joint bachelor and bachelorette party) for Alex’s friends Christy and Jason over a bank holiday weekend (translation: a three-day weekend). We stayed on an estate in a town called Church Stretton in Shropshire, which is very far northwest of London on the English/Welsh border. I didn’t know it at the time, but we had to change trains in Wales, a country I had never been to (or even really thought about save for Catherine Zeta-Jones’/Charlotte Church’s repeated public references to it).
I’m going to admit my ignorance here now, but did anyone else know about the proliferation of the Welsh language in the country? I thought maybe it was like Gaelic…it’s there but no one really speaks it. Even though I read (I’m a nerd) that only 21% of the population actually speaks Welsh anymore, they seem hell-bent on keeping it alive, putting it on all street signs and announcing trains in both languages. I admired the dedication, so I took this pic (also, like Glasgow, I wanted to prove I was there).
(I resisted the urge to ask if anyone had any gwybodaeth on Casnewydd.)
Once we arrived in Church Stretton, we were driven out to the boondocks to a working farm. As the best man, Alex had been responsible for the accommodations, and he did an amazing job finding a 6-bedroom recently renovated former barn with a huge banquet table inside, a great outdoor dining area, a fully stocked kitchen, and a great backyard.
The weather was, for once, agreeable ("Is it raining? I hadn't noticed."), which was great for our planned Sports Day. We played a full day's worth of a Girls-Against-Boys competition of grade school games, like three-legged man race, egg and spoon race, space hopper race, etc (no Quidditch). I took a time lapse video of some of the action. Hopefully you'll get the gist....We were all sore the next day (that wheelbarrow race is a killer).
The next day, we hiked to a really nice gastropub about five miles away, where we had a great meal and took in the local scenery.
Pretty nice, eh? It was a great weekend, full of fun times, sunny weather, and many laughs...and fortunately, not a single funeral.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Alice and the Great Laundry DebacleShaw
I have had no washing machine for two weeks. Allow me to explain the severity of this statement. In London, most people have front-loading washing machines under the counters in their kitchens. It might seem odd to prepare food and wash your undies in the same room, but if you think about it, it seems to make as much sense as say, putting the washer in the bathroom. These are all, more or less, sanitary places where you clean stuff (in theory).
Two weeks ago, right around the time I got back from Greece, ours stopped moving past the rinse cycle. I put my towels and sheets in one morning at 8 am, came home at 8 pm, and there were my pillow cases still whirring around in the little window, being incessantly sloshed with water. When I finally managed to extract them from the machine about two hours and another whole cycle later, they were sopping wet and somewhat questionable smelling for having been lost at sea for 14 hours.
This situation is especially disconcerting when you know that in London, it’s an anomaly to have a clothes dryer. Generally, life carries on here with your tank tops as stiff as a board and your sheets taking three days to dry on a clothes horse. I mean, okay, fine. I get the space issue that the fact that dryers need to be ventilated somehow in these old buildings and the fact that they are just a HUGE energy vacuum (even more than the actual vacuum). I understand all that. Still, it’s a sad concept for those of us accustomed to our soft cotton shirts, fluffy towels and the creepy high-pitched voice of the Snuggle teddy bear.
So with no dryer, you start to do some serious forward-planning when it comes to laundry. It’s rare to do more than one load at a time, because there’s simply no room on the clothes horse. Long story short, I had a lot of laundry to do even before the damn thing broke.
Compounding the issue is that I NEVER iron. Or at least I didn’t in the States. I’m not even totally sure how to do it (this from the girl whose mother irons t-shirts)…so much so that the other day, I went to do it and didn’t realize until about 10 minutes in that it wasn’t on. I just assumed that I was doing it wrong. I have no idea what that little squirt thing is for, and I’ll be dammed if I can tell the difference between the regular setting and the steam setting. When I was in the States, I just “fluffed things up” if they were wrinkled….or I took them to the dry cleaners. These days, I actually have to put time aside to haul out the ironing board and set out to restore my clothes to wearable status. It’s a whole new world, and I’m not sure I like it.
So I try to avoid ironing by immediately taking the clothes out of the washer and strategically hanging them on the horse. When your washer won’t advance to the next stage, you’re basically guaranteed a monster iron session.
Anyway, as you can see, this washing machine issue is a serious one, so I have been trying desperately to do something about it. But despite calling the management company repeatedly (GRAINGER RESIDENTIAL MANAGEMENT: Here’s a little bit of bad press for you, courtesy of The OckleShow), they apparently didn’t find my dirty workout clothes to be as big of a priority as I did. So they waited, my big pile of laundry grew, and I was forced to start lugging laundry around on my back so that I could get it done when I was at Alex’s. When GRAINGER RESIDENTIAL MANAGEMENT finally did send some guy out to take a look, he gave it a professional diagnosis of: “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
So here I am, back to square one, with nary a sign of having a functioning washing machine ever again. I’m about THIS CLOSE to having to go to a laundromat (or “launderette” if you’re British)—something I swore I would never do again sohelpmegod the day I moved out of my first apartment in Chicago at age 23.
Then again, I also swore I would not post to my blog if I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say….and see where that got me…sitting here, writing 800 words on laundry. So you know, things change.
Anyway, so I know you’ll all be waiting with bated breath to see what comes of this whole laundry debacle. In the meantime, I’ll do what I always do, and take it as an excuse to go shopping.
Two weeks ago, right around the time I got back from Greece, ours stopped moving past the rinse cycle. I put my towels and sheets in one morning at 8 am, came home at 8 pm, and there were my pillow cases still whirring around in the little window, being incessantly sloshed with water. When I finally managed to extract them from the machine about two hours and another whole cycle later, they were sopping wet and somewhat questionable smelling for having been lost at sea for 14 hours.
This situation is especially disconcerting when you know that in London, it’s an anomaly to have a clothes dryer. Generally, life carries on here with your tank tops as stiff as a board and your sheets taking three days to dry on a clothes horse. I mean, okay, fine. I get the space issue that the fact that dryers need to be ventilated somehow in these old buildings and the fact that they are just a HUGE energy vacuum (even more than the actual vacuum). I understand all that. Still, it’s a sad concept for those of us accustomed to our soft cotton shirts, fluffy towels and the creepy high-pitched voice of the Snuggle teddy bear.
So with no dryer, you start to do some serious forward-planning when it comes to laundry. It’s rare to do more than one load at a time, because there’s simply no room on the clothes horse. Long story short, I had a lot of laundry to do even before the damn thing broke.
Compounding the issue is that I NEVER iron. Or at least I didn’t in the States. I’m not even totally sure how to do it (this from the girl whose mother irons t-shirts)…so much so that the other day, I went to do it and didn’t realize until about 10 minutes in that it wasn’t on. I just assumed that I was doing it wrong. I have no idea what that little squirt thing is for, and I’ll be dammed if I can tell the difference between the regular setting and the steam setting. When I was in the States, I just “fluffed things up” if they were wrinkled….or I took them to the dry cleaners. These days, I actually have to put time aside to haul out the ironing board and set out to restore my clothes to wearable status. It’s a whole new world, and I’m not sure I like it.
So I try to avoid ironing by immediately taking the clothes out of the washer and strategically hanging them on the horse. When your washer won’t advance to the next stage, you’re basically guaranteed a monster iron session.
Anyway, as you can see, this washing machine issue is a serious one, so I have been trying desperately to do something about it. But despite calling the management company repeatedly (GRAINGER RESIDENTIAL MANAGEMENT: Here’s a little bit of bad press for you, courtesy of The OckleShow), they apparently didn’t find my dirty workout clothes to be as big of a priority as I did. So they waited, my big pile of laundry grew, and I was forced to start lugging laundry around on my back so that I could get it done when I was at Alex’s. When GRAINGER RESIDENTIAL MANAGEMENT finally did send some guy out to take a look, he gave it a professional diagnosis of: “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
So here I am, back to square one, with nary a sign of having a functioning washing machine ever again. I’m about THIS CLOSE to having to go to a laundromat (or “launderette” if you’re British)—something I swore I would never do again sohelpmegod the day I moved out of my first apartment in Chicago at age 23.
Then again, I also swore I would not post to my blog if I didn’t have anything worthwhile to say….and see where that got me…sitting here, writing 800 words on laundry. So you know, things change.
Anyway, so I know you’ll all be waiting with bated breath to see what comes of this whole laundry debacle. In the meantime, I’ll do what I always do, and take it as an excuse to go shopping.
The inevitable
Remember how I said I felt a bit of "breaking the drinking rule" coming on last Friday night? And remember how I said that homeless guy might have been a cautionary tale of what happens when you do?
This was me, on Saturday morning...
I do like that my copy of Grazia magazine was preserved for the second pic. Nice touch, AP.
This was me, on Saturday morning...
...sleeping on the family room floor (in my defense, I did not wake up there. I simply moved there later in the morning). There were no people doing bicycle kicks at me, but the Olympics were on, so it was a similar contrast.
A big thank you to Alex for documenting the event...it sure would be a shame if these little moments of personal glory weren't captured for posterity!
Update: My very caring boyf wanted to ensure that you got the full effect. So you have him to thank for this one too...
I do like that my copy of Grazia magazine was preserved for the second pic. Nice touch, AP.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Ain't nothin but a G thang
If I’ve been slightly reticent lately, it’s because I have turned over my life to strapping young fellow we’ll call G, a.k.a Boot Camp instructor extraordinaire. He is single-handedly responsible for the fact that, just in case I wasn’t struggling enough in this department already, I have no life.
Seriously, three nights a week from 7-8 pm is a big commitment. If you go out of town on the weekends, which I seem to do quite often, that basically just leaves you with Tuesday night to get your laundry done or engage with society outside of the workplace. Plus, G. has insisted that I and my fellow gluttons for punishment stick to his “Incinerator” plan, which technically means no bread, candy, caffeine, pasta, rice, additives, processed foods, etc. for the entire four-week session.
This isn’t very difficult for me, and so far, I’ve been dutifully sticking (more or less) to the plan of organic meat, veggies, low-fat dairy and low-sugar fruits. But there’s one more, significantly harder to give up indulgence he’s banned: alcohol. Fortunately, so far this week I haven’t had time to get within five feet of a pub, so it hasn’t been an issue…but it’s going to be, probably starting tonight.
I don’t know about you guys, but as a single 30-year-old in the city, I need me some cocktails. What else is there really? Sitting at home on my few nights off from beating my body to a pulp and watching the BBC? Maybe that’s sad (or the sign of something more sinister like um, functional alcoholism), but giving up all drinks for a month is really just not an option.
But I have to admit, I feel guilty. G. is not a gruff, shouting, ex-military man who the 15-year-old inside you just yearns to disobey. He’s something even worse—he’s rational.
He the type who sits us down, stares at us with his big blue eyes, flashes a warm smile, and says in a nice, friendly calm voice, “You are the reason you’re fat.” (Aside to my girls: I squelched the urge to reply: “Did you just call me fat? Like, literally?”). Coming from him, it sounds almost like maternal advice, as if he’s a modern-day Mary Poppins… “Just a spoonful of non-aspartame natural sugar substitute makes the herbal remedy go down.”
His whole shtick is: I can motivate you, but ultimately, it’s up to you to make yourself thin. If you want alcohol, have it, but you should want to give it up for these four weeks for you and you alone. Grrrr… I hate you good-looking, friendly fitness instructor! Damn you and your sound logic!
He’s even nice to the homeless men who intrude upon our gazebo in the park where we hold classes. Last night, two guys who reeked of alcohol were passed out in our little undercover space when we arrived. What did G. do? He insisted we work around them, actually organizing our exercises in accordance with the position of the sleeping men. He didn’t even seem alarmed when one of them “had a wee” and ambled off.
(The other remained there, completely oblivious, for the duration of the class. Because I’m an enterprising journalist (haha), I took pics of him):
So tonight I’ll go out and attempt to follow the no-alcohol rule…or at least I’ll forgo the carb-y beer for vodka soda (it counts). In retrospect, I’m beginning to wonder if the homeless guy was a plant….See what happens to people who disobey the alcohol rule? They end up sleeping on concrete in their own filth while 10 sweaty girls and the Common Sense King lunge and bicycle kick at them. Well-played, G. Well-played.
Seriously, three nights a week from 7-8 pm is a big commitment. If you go out of town on the weekends, which I seem to do quite often, that basically just leaves you with Tuesday night to get your laundry done or engage with society outside of the workplace. Plus, G. has insisted that I and my fellow gluttons for punishment stick to his “Incinerator” plan, which technically means no bread, candy, caffeine, pasta, rice, additives, processed foods, etc. for the entire four-week session.
This isn’t very difficult for me, and so far, I’ve been dutifully sticking (more or less) to the plan of organic meat, veggies, low-fat dairy and low-sugar fruits. But there’s one more, significantly harder to give up indulgence he’s banned: alcohol. Fortunately, so far this week I haven’t had time to get within five feet of a pub, so it hasn’t been an issue…but it’s going to be, probably starting tonight.
I don’t know about you guys, but as a single 30-year-old in the city, I need me some cocktails. What else is there really? Sitting at home on my few nights off from beating my body to a pulp and watching the BBC? Maybe that’s sad (or the sign of something more sinister like um, functional alcoholism), but giving up all drinks for a month is really just not an option.
But I have to admit, I feel guilty. G. is not a gruff, shouting, ex-military man who the 15-year-old inside you just yearns to disobey. He’s something even worse—he’s rational.
He the type who sits us down, stares at us with his big blue eyes, flashes a warm smile, and says in a nice, friendly calm voice, “You are the reason you’re fat.” (Aside to my girls: I squelched the urge to reply: “Did you just call me fat? Like, literally?”). Coming from him, it sounds almost like maternal advice, as if he’s a modern-day Mary Poppins… “Just a spoonful of non-aspartame natural sugar substitute makes the herbal remedy go down.”
His whole shtick is: I can motivate you, but ultimately, it’s up to you to make yourself thin. If you want alcohol, have it, but you should want to give it up for these four weeks for you and you alone. Grrrr… I hate you good-looking, friendly fitness instructor! Damn you and your sound logic!
He’s even nice to the homeless men who intrude upon our gazebo in the park where we hold classes. Last night, two guys who reeked of alcohol were passed out in our little undercover space when we arrived. What did G. do? He insisted we work around them, actually organizing our exercises in accordance with the position of the sleeping men. He didn’t even seem alarmed when one of them “had a wee” and ambled off.
(The other remained there, completely oblivious, for the duration of the class. Because I’m an enterprising journalist (haha), I took pics of him):
So tonight I’ll go out and attempt to follow the no-alcohol rule…or at least I’ll forgo the carb-y beer for vodka soda (it counts). In retrospect, I’m beginning to wonder if the homeless guy was a plant….See what happens to people who disobey the alcohol rule? They end up sleeping on concrete in their own filth while 10 sweaty girls and the Common Sense King lunge and bicycle kick at them. Well-played, G. Well-played.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
It's all Greek to me! (or Some other lame title I'm too tired to think of)
After my first boot camp class last night, I came in this morning thinking, "Wow, I'm not even sore!" I was feeling very proud of myself until right.....about.....now. Muscles I didn't even know I had are screaming with every step. My WRISTS are sore. Anyway, long story short, I'm sticking my pics up here, but they'll have to do without my waxing poetic for 10 paragraphs first. Pity, I know. Mama needs a hot bath and a low-carb meal, stat.
Anyway, here it is, in all its glory: The Holiday OckleShowdown.
After a very brief night in Athens, we headed down to Piraeus, home of nothing but a bunch of stray dogs, some office buildings, and a huge port for ships headed to the islands. We missed our reserved boat, so we spent a little more time than we'd hoped in this lovely metropolis.
Hello Moto...
If your genitalia looks like a wheelchair, enter here...
The cafes lining the harbour...
Have...no....more....energy....for.....witty.....descriptions....
Our last night in Greece....boo hoo....Check out our watermelon and baklava combo. Yum. (in addition to being in pain, I'm also hungry)
Sorry for the lame commentary, but I'm sitting at a 45-degree angle to the left in an attempt to reduce the sharp pain across my back, so I'd best be off.
Anyway, here it is, in all its glory: The Holiday OckleShowdown.
After a very brief night in Athens, we headed down to Piraeus, home of nothing but a bunch of stray dogs, some office buildings, and a huge port for ships headed to the islands. We missed our reserved boat, so we spent a little more time than we'd hoped in this lovely metropolis.
Hello Moto...
If your genitalia looks like a wheelchair, enter here...
When we finally got on board and headed to Hydra, this is what we saw when we pulled up. Pretty big contrast, eh?
There are no cars, bikes or motorcycles allowed on the island, so this is the best form of transportation...
Happy to be out of Piraeus...
The cafes lining the harbour...
The quick walk to our hotel....
The shops along the harbour, where we spent a lot of time checking out the jewelery...
...not to mention THE UGLIEST DOLL EVER invented. I had nightmares. if this were my doll, I'll call it Uncle Morty...
After sweating all day, Kristen and I liked to take pics of ourselves at meals when we were clean for an hour...
Even Santa goes on holiday...
I don't know why...
There was much discussion about bougainvillea...I still don't know how to pronounce it, but ain't it perty?
Every day, we walked 20 minutes to our favourite beach, which was called The Four Seasons...
...and this is it. Lovely, but not quite $425 a night...
A nearby port...
For some reason, this little girl's swimsuit top made me laugh hysterically...is that mean?
Our favourite restaurant on the island, though not the one where we felt the earthquake...(be happy I'm sparing you the millions of pics of food we took)
Does it still count as food if it's still in life form? One of several choose-your-own-fish adventures...
Because we had been spending ridiculous amounts of time lying on the beach and stuffing our faces, we decided to take a hike to the top of the island to see a monastery. Little did we know that we'd be doing so in the blazing heat (no shade) for three hours straight uphill. Good thing the wayfinding was so clear...(what you can't tell was that this was at a fork in the road)
The way up...believe it or not, those are steps...
The amazing view somewhat made up for the shaking legs and heaving chests...
I stopped to take pics as an excuse to catch my breath. You are the lucky beneficiaries...
Sometimes the road looked like this...
The higher we got, the fewer we saw of these....
Finally, we arrived....the stairway to heaven...
This better be the best darn monastery on earth...
Kristen with the Turkish Delight and water the kind monk had left our for us... 
What's a bunch of pics of Europe without one of a church?
The lovely chapel outside the monastery walls...
After a brief visit, we then had to begin the arduous journey back down. The stairway to hell...
After a few glorious days in the delightful Hydra, we headed back to Athens for a night before heading home. Fortunately I was able to fit in a trip to the Acropolis before packing my bags.
Don't we look super-imposed?
All of the dogs in Greece look like this...like they are dead...
Athens....a great city with a lot of pollution...
Yeah, I'm not even bothering anymore...
Have...no....more....energy....for.....witty.....descriptions....
Our last night in Greece....boo hoo....Check out our watermelon and baklava combo. Yum. (in addition to being in pain, I'm also hungry)
Sorry for the lame commentary, but I'm sitting at a 45-degree angle to the left in an attempt to reduce the sharp pain across my back, so I'd best be off.
Man, I could so use a vacation....
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