I haven't blogged in a year.  I'm not sure I'm going to start again, but at the same time I'm also loathe to see this blog disappear due to inactivity.  Inspired by the fact that Rutabaga Stories came up on a Google search I made when trying to get some updated information related to my Basque region class at Rick Steves' Europe tonight, I decided I should update with a brief post.

Still traveling, still cooking, still learning how to be a mom (my son is currently at the other end of the table in his high chair, chewing on a coconut biscuit we brought back from Zambia).  Life is good, life is a challenge, life is constantly changing, yet ever the same.  If I get it all figured out someday, I'll let you know.

Remembering Morocco

In Sevilla, our tour is winding down (but not before tonight's final dinner and horse drawn carriage ride, of course). Spain and Morocco have been a whirlwind, with too few opportunities to write about the experience. While Morocco now feels like a world away, I can still recall sitting on the roof terrace of the Dar Nour by night, surrounded by the layered rooftops of the kasbah, and hearing the day's final call to prayer as the meuzzins one by one began their chant. Unlike most Muslim countries, in Morocco the call to prayer is still sung by a live meuzzin rather than a recording, and the sound spreads throughout the city via the loudspeakers atop the minarets.

Below, the streets are packed with action until late in the evening. Kids and cats roam the twisting alleys while men drink mint tea at tables lining the sidewalks. Many women are out two, making their way though the narrow streets in both traditional caftans and headscarves and skintight jeans, but the cafe scene still belongs to the men.

Some of the best food can be found just outside the prime tourist zone at Le Saveur de Poisson, where one menu is served for lunch and dinner. Take a seat and you will be presented with a dish of black olives, a bowl of housemade chili oil, roasted almonds, and a basket of Moroccan breads. Soon, a bowl of shrimp and couscous soup appears. Dip your bread in the chili oil - it's positively addictive, and far spicier than almost anything you'll find in Spain. Even the flavor othe roasted almonds seems amplified beyond any you've tasted before.

But these simple delights are only the beginning. An earthenware dish of shrimp baked with spinach and cubes of fish soon follows, steaming hot from the oven. It tastes fresh and bright, the shrimp bursting with flavor, the fish and spinach melting together on the tounge. A main course follows of flatfish simply roasted over coals, served alongside kebabs of swordfish. Fresh and meaty, sweet and tender, nothing beats seafood roasted to perfection.

Finally, there is dessert. Toasted barley and pinenuts are mixed with coarse brown sugar and thick, dark honey that is just starting to crystalize, and luscious strawberries topped with the same honey round out the meal. Throughout it all, your goblet is constantly refilled with a home brewed fruit juice, tasting of figs and plums.

Like Morocco itself, the meal is enchanting and exotic. It's also a respite from the crowded streets outside, much like the roof terraces take you away from the bustle of a city packed with people, traffic, and non-ending noise. Spain feels tame by comparison. Here in Sevilla the weather is perfect, the city is beautiful, and the atmosphere is relaxed. But I can't wait to go back to Morocco for another taste of this different world.

Jamon and the Alhambra

It´s a sunny day in Granada, with any snow merely a distant memory (after all, it didn´t even really stick). This morning, the group gaped in awe at stalagtite ceilings in the Alhambra, and even managed to beat most of the crowds. Down below in the old town, I headed for lunch at a local tapas bar with the guide and driver.

As any good Spaniard, or good traveler in Spain, knows, crowded equals good when it comes to tapas bars. And at around 2pm, this place was hopping. We snaked our way through the throngs and managed to squeeze out a little spot along the bar for a stand up meal. Out came a platter of migas (Spanish fried breadcrumbs, which are actually very tasty), quickly followed by selection of jamon, cheeses, and pates. We weren´t even halfway through it when small sampler plates of paella arrived, on the house.

Spain: scme for the sights, stay for the food, but don´t ever expect to lose any weight on this vacation.

The Snow in Spain

...falls mainly around the plain. We woke up in Segovia on May 4th to the sight of white flakes swirling on the other side of the windows. Who would have imagined it, but so far our May tour in Spain has been colder than our April tour in Belgium and the Netherlands. On the ride to El Escorial, a light dusting of snow coated the rocks and trees along the highway, and while El Escorial itself was free from snow, a fierce wind whipped around corners and down alleyways, making any time spent outside a fight against the elements. The fingertips of my left hand prickled with numbness.

Fortunately, the sun was shining despite the nearly frigid temperatures, and in Spain all it takes is a nice, leisurely meal in a warm cafe to put things right. Some of the group, including the guide and I, took advantage of the menu del dia at a local restaurant. This Spanish specialty provides patrons with the option to choose a three course lunch with wine for one very reasonable price, in this case twelve Euros. For a mere twelve Euros, I enjoyed Russian salad, fish, and pudding for dessert, along with a full bottle of red wine to share. If you want to follow the recommended advice to fill up with a large meal at midday and enjoy only a light repast (tapas, antyone?) in the evening, the menu del dia is the way to go. In Seattle, you´d pay the same amount per person just to split a bottle of wine.

Finally warm again, I´m glad to be in Madrid tonight, where the weather isn´t quite so chilly. Still full from lunch, I wonder if I´ll even bother with dinner tonight. In the meantime, a walking tour around the Puerto del Sol should get the blood moving again, and I can honestly say it´s a beautiful day on the plains of Spain.

A Day Fit for a Queen

After non-stop sun for well over a week, Queen's Day in the Netherlands was ushered in with a thunderstorm. Seemingly only minutes after the guide and I saw our tour members safely back to our hotel, the heavens opened. But this was Queen's Night - basically, an excuse to party on into the wee hours since the next day is the national holiday - and a little rain couldn't stop us from heading back out to the streets. Crowds packed the Amsterdam city squares, dance music blared from stages, and orange was everywhere.

This morning, too, orange was the color du jour. Alongside the red, white, and blue stripes of the national flag of the Netherlands flew orange ones in honor of the royal family. Queen's Day is, in fact, one of the only times when the royal orange can be raised with the flag. In such a tolerant country, it comes as a surprise to me that such a thing is so strictly regulated, although it lends a special flair to the bright banners.

While Queen's Day is, more or less, a celebration of Dutch independence, it's not fully clear what about this day makes it patriotic, other than the fact that Orange, in honor of the Duke of Orange, who helped liverate the country from Spanish Hapsburg rule, is everywhere. Besides the wearing of the orange, the day is celebrated by turning entire towns and cities into one gigantic flea market. On this day, anyone can sell anything (anything legal, that is), with no permit required. Little girls make cupcakes, college students mix cocktails, and a vast array of junk, ranging from orange leis to used comics to every article of clothing imaginable are on display.

Some get creative - electonic keyboards are set up on street corners for young musical geniuses to showcase their talent and maybe earn a few coins, a wishing wall becomes a place for people to write their wishes on orange post-its in exchange for a donation to help girls in need in Indonesia. "Your wish is absolutely guaranteed to come true," the woman promoting the wishing wall assured me. If that's true, we can all look forward to world peace in the near future. One young man even set himself up as a target for throwing raw eggs - for a fee, of course.

The entreprenurial spirit of the people, and that Dutch way with money, shine even when the sun doesn't. According to the local news, those who were planning on selling in the city planned to make an average of eighty Euros today. Talking with two girls who had a spread set out to raise money for orphans in Ghana, I learned that they had already raised fifty euros, all before noon. With a donation of two more from me, they were well on their way to surpassing the eight Euro mark. Further into the neighborhood, however, a man who convinced me to spring for a fifty cent cup of coffee to comlement my cupcake, noted that he had sold very little. So little, in fact, that he had slashed his prices by half.

"I'd rather sell some coffee for fifty cents than no coffee for one Euro," he told me, while his wife sat in the window of their home with the coffee maker ready for another batch. Dutch practicality wins the day.

As the rain started to clear away, streets and canals become more and more crowded with partiers on foot, bike, and boat. The party will last late into the night, I'm sure, but in the meantime I'll be on my way to Barcelona. Which is just as well, considering that another night of less than five hours of sleep would probably not be the best way to start off my next tour. Not to mention the fact that my orange shirt, purchased yesterday for the big event, probably would smell even less sweet after another night surrounded by spilled beer and various kinds of smoke wafting through the air... this is Amsterdam, after all.

In the meantime, I'll enjoy a last few hours in the Netherlands, and wish everyone, Queen included, a very happy holiday.

Light in the Low Countries

It's late April and the sun is shining in the Netherelands. In other words, right now is the perfect time to be here. North Seat beaches that are packed in August offer today offer a wided expance of windswept white sand, thee tulips are just beginning to bloom, and bicyclists are out in their shirt sleeves. Even here at the hotel computer I can feel the warmth of the sun streaming through the window, highlighting the fresh green leaves on an apple tree that is just beginning to blossom.

Considering the time of year, the weather has been amazing. Sure, it's chilly in the morning, when I bundle up in my cardigan and jacket before stepping outside for our local walking tours, but by the time noon hits the extra layers have been peeled back and first on my mind is how to take advantage of the wonderful blue skies above in my photos.

So, I think you'll understand when I sasy I can't write for long - us native Northwesterners know we always must take advantage of a sunny day. Tot ziens!

A Look at Luxembourg

Last night in Luxembourg, tonight in Belgium (and believe me, I'm really craving a beer right now, so I know where I'm headed once I finish this post): it's a whirlwind tour! But I am thankful to be here, although it sounds like our poor tour group, which is scheduled to start tomorrow, may be down to eleven members. This, combined with the fact that my lead guide still has yet to arrive in the city, does make me just a little wary.

But Luxembourg was a joy to visit, filled with turrets, twisting alleys, beautiful bridges, and the distinctive feeling of France, but in a trilingual community and service with a smile. The Luxembourgers, having long been a small nation, sandwiched between the European powerhouses of Frqnce and Germany, have no choice but to live side by side with others. In fact, "foreigners", mostly from within the European Union, make up almost half of the population of this tiny country.

This was one fact I learned on a guided tour through the city this afternoon, with a cheerful, yet highly opinionated, native Luxembourger as our guide. Among others, he rated both Regan and Obama as great American presidents, so at least it can be said that his opinions don't subscribe to one particular political ideology, at least other than democracy. Ah, democracy! That was the word of the day, as our guide insisted that everything was fair - as long as it was decided democratically, by the people, not the politicians.

We traveled up and down the city; situated as it is on top of a natural fortress of rock, it's easy to work up a sweat while traversing the town. Today, with the sun shining despite the haze on the horizon (a haze caused in part by volcqnic ash, perhaps?), it wass even easy to get an accidental sunburn.

I left Luxembourg feeling that my time there had been too short, and wondering why it doesn't even merit a mention in Rick's guidebooks. But then, it's also nice to feel like I've discovered a little piece of European charm all by myself.

Goodbyes and Hellos

Volcanic ash may be swirling in the air high above me, but here in Mainz the sun is shining, light streaming through the windows onto crisp white walls. Sara and Taylor's apartment is immaculatly decorated, starting with a palette of pure white as the backdrop. Orchids soak up the sun, nestled next to window panes that peek out from under gabled dormers, and a triangle of glass in the loft lets in light from the terrace. I've hung the sheets outside to dry in the unseasonably warm weather, hopeful that they might be dry within the hour, at which point I'll be headed out to catch another train, this time for Luxembourg, taking all my luggage with me and leaving behind the key to this lovely place.

The only thing that would have made it better, I have to concede, would be if Sara herself were here. But as fate would have it, she and her husband were off to the United States mere days before I flew into Frankfurt, with the result that I would up with a free place to stay but no company with whom to share it.

It's been a lovely week, though, and I can't even muster up the will to worry about whether or not Iseland's ongoing volcanic erruption will prove disruptive to the tour I'm scheduled to begin on Tuesday in Brussels or not. For the first time in a long while, I will be leaving this afternoon with no reservations, only a plan to stop by the hostel in Luxembourg city, hoping they have a bed available (although I can't claim to really be so adventurous and devil-may care, considering I did check their website yesterday to make sure they weren't fully booked).

I'll miss my temporary home in Mainz, but it's also time to pick up the pace and get back into the travel routine, for I don't really conside what I've been doing this past week to be travel in the true sense of the word. A break from the routine, sure, and definitely a means of getting away from it all, spending time on my own without any agenda other than to do nothing beyond what I feel like doing, something which is surprisingly difficult to accomplish at home.

Goodbye, Germany. We'll meet again soon, I hope. Maybe in this very same apartment, over one more cup of tea.

The Taste of May

"Do you know Maibolle?" Britta asked me.

"Marburg? No," I replied, wondering how it was that this town was coming up in the dinner conversation.

Britta proceeded to explain, auf Deutsch (the only language spoken when I visit my relatives in this part of the world), how wine and sparkling wine are infused with herbs to create a traditional spring beverege. It sounded delicious, but -

"They call this Marburg?" I asked again, still confused.

"Oh, no. Maibolle," she repeated, and this time I got it. The word "Mai", German for the month of May, immediately brings to mind thoughts of spring, and what could go better with spring than a refreshing drink of lightly sparkling and delicately herb flavored white wine. Peter, my dad's German cousin, brought out a pitcher and poured me a sample.

"It's delicious!" I enthused.

"And it goes quickly to your head!" Monika laughed.

"Don't tell her that!" Britta countered. Now everyone held their glasses out for a taste of Maibolle. Tonight, the grill had already made it's first appearance of the year, providing us with platters of wurst and marinated meats. Now, with the Maibolle, it was official: spring is finally here. Of course, it had grown too cold in the evening for us to enjoy the meal outside, but the sun was shining nonetheless.

Little discoveries, like Maibolle, provide me with some of the most pleasure when I travel. I don't even know if I'm spelling it right, or what a "Bolle" is, but two pitchers later, I can tell you that it sure tastes great. It's flavored with Waldmeister, a popular spring herb here in Germany, whose name literally means, "forestmaster". Having never heard of such an herb in the U.S., Peter pulled out a massive tome of a German/English dictionary to find a translation. The answer? Woodruff. Yeah, that cleared things up. Even at the Herb Garden, perhaps the Seattle area's fanciest restaurant, does woodruff ever make an appearance? Would the average American even recognize woodruff as a plant, let alone an edible one?

It's a shame, really, because Waldmeister is pretty tasty. So tasty, in fact, that you can even buy Waldmeister flavored Gummi Bears in the spring at Baeren Treff, the all-Gummi, all-the-time shop located in Wiesbaden. I made a pilgrimage to Baeren Treff with Leonie, the German student who visited us in Seattle last summer, who happens to live in Wiesbaden. I left the shop with a lighter wallet but a much heavier load, weighed down by more than four kilos of Gummi Bears, a bag of Waldmeister included for good measure. It may not be Maibolle, but for friends and family back home in the Pacific Northwest, it will be a little taste of springtime in Deutschland.

Trier at a Glance

Never judge a town by its train station. By that standard, arriving in Trier is a real letdown. This is Germany's oldest city? Home of the best preserved ancient Roman building outside of Rome? From this vantage point, it looks more like the home of Germany's worst 1960s architecture, from which not even the station itself was spared.

But if you walk a little farther, you'll begin to notice some elegant 19th century town homes to your left, and before you've gone much further, something far older and far more interresting appears. The Porta Nigra, or Black Gate (named for the darkened sandstone from which it was made), marks a grand entrance into Trier's old town.

Walk through this portal, and the traffic and ugly architecture of more rececnt times are quickly put out of sight and mind. While little original is left of what was once a grand Roman city, capitol of the Western sector of ancient Rome after the Emperor Diocletian split the empire into four parts, what you'll see today features a mix of medeival and more, all centered around a pretty market square and capped with Germany's oldest Christian church, a fusion of Romanesque and Gothic, built upon an ancient Roman foundation. Even signs announcing the location of H&M and McDonald's above glassy window displays do little to detract from the scene.

Even better than the beautiful buildings, the people of Trier are what brings the town to life. It's easy to imagine that the town's inhabitants have been buying their fruit and vegetables here for hundreds of years, where today teenagers camp next to medeival monuments and practice their skateboarding moves in the square outside the fourth century Roman basilica. Around the corner, families stroll in Baroque gardens, enjoying the lack of rain despite grey skies overhead.

When the time comes for me to head back to Mainz, I walk straight through the Porta Nigra, exchanging the sound of children laughing for that of city traffic. But it only takes a quick turn of the head to see that the Porta Nigra still stands, no longer a necessary protector of the city, but a welcome into another world.

A Spa Day the German Way

Wrapped in a warm, clean sheet enveloped in a soft woolen blanket, I realize that it has been a long time since I've been swaddled. In fact, I can't even remember back that far, although I'm sure that at some point in my infancy my mother must have bundled me in such a way, my arms tucked next to my body for comfort, safe in my own cocoon. Now, as an adult, I relax and enjoy the warmth and gentle silencec around me.

Getting to the swadling took some doing. It is the second to last step in a seventeen step process at Baden Baden's Roman baths. Considering that the seventeenth step is hanging out wrapped in another clean sheet on a lounge chair with a lackluster German magazine collection in the "reading room", I'd say that it's the last step that really counts. So, step 16: spend half an hour in the resting room, swaddled.

I admit I found the steps a little confusing at times. And reading the full step-by-step desscription out on the landing before I entered the spa probably wouldn't have helped much considering that seventeen steps is a lot to remember, and part of the confusion lies in the fact that the individual rooms for each part of the process are not laid out in a simple straight line. This confusion is compounded by the fact that without my glasses, the signs, written in soothing pale green and taupe, are rathere difficult to spot, and impossible to read from any distance. But who wants to weear glasses in a spa?

When it comes down to it, who wants to wear anything in a spa? These aren't called Baths for nothing - people come here to relax, recuperate, and get super squeaky clean, which means a dress code of nothing beyond your locker wristband is always enforced. I knew this ahead of time, but I also knew that most of the rooms, with the excecption of a couple of pools, were segregated by sex, with the exception of Sundays, Tuesday, and holidays, when bathing is mixed. But I had come on a Wednesday. Perfect timing, I thought.

But apparrently mixed bathing is pretty popular in Baden Baden, for when I walked up to the entrance of the elegant Friedrichsbad building, I saw someething that did not correlate with the information in my Rick Steves' guidebook: Mittwoch gemischt. Wednesdays mixed.

Now I had a decision to make, and ultimately, I decided that Friedrichsbad is a classy place and if the Germans themselves feel comfortable enough to do this three days out of seven, plus holidays (and believe me, they have more holidays than we do), then I hadn't come all this way just to turn around in false shame. It was no big deal, right?

And... it wasn't. A big deal, that is. Nobody pays much attention to anyone else, as everyone is there to enjoy their own personal experience, alone or together with their partner, friends, or family. Guests and staff (who are professionally clothed all in white) are curteous, quiet, and help the space maintain a sense of utter relaxation, cleanliness, and even elegance.

Starting with a shower that warms you to your bones, you'll move to the sauna rooms before returning for another soothing shower. You next visit the steam rooms, after experiencing the optional ten minute brush massage (if you paid for it). The steam rooms lead you to a series of mineral pools, starting with a wonderfully warm one. Throughout this experience you can close your eyes and drift into a half sleep, or stare at the beatifully tiled ceilings and glass domes. The culmination is the grand dome in the center over a pool of clear, cool blue water. Completely alone when I entered this space, I swam silently across the circular pool, gazing up at the amazing surroundings. It felt like a taste of heaven.

After a soak in the warm water whirlpool, followed by a final shower, drying off with a fresh warm towel, and applying "creme", or lotion, I found myself finally in the quiet room. Beds formed an inner and outer circle under yet another dome, and I could make out figures bundled in blankets atop some of the beds across the room. Charmed by the idea, I lay down on one of the beds and folded the blanket over me.

Some minutes had passed when I felt a gentle nudge near my feet. A woman in white whispered for me to rise. Had I done something wrong? Yes, as it turns out, you are supposed to let them wrap you, and I'd skipped protocol. You don't just lie down on a plain old blanket. But the woman was very nice about it as she laid a clean warm sheet on a new blanket for me, then wrapped me just snugly enough to be supremely cozy.

Somestimes, a good swaddling is exactly what we need.

Planes, Train, but no Automobiles

German trains are not always on time; that is a myth. Granted, a German train might only be late by five minutes, as compared with a five hour delay on Amtrak, but clockwork timeliness is not always acheived. That award would go to the Swiss.

Still, the train system is a marvel. Bold yellow placards display the daily arrivals at each station, and locals start to peer down the tracks with just a hint of angst in their stolid expressions when a train does not appear precisely when expected. Waiting by the tracks, I practice my own look of nonchalance, hoping to seem nothing more than the average daily commuter.

Inside, however, I am not always so suave. Despite the thoroughness of the German rail system, I have already managed, since my arrival Tuesday evening, to make more than one blunder. First: choosing the wrong train at the Frankfurt Airport station. What can I say, the train I was supposed to take followed almost the same route as the one I mistakenly boarded while neglecting to check the number posted clearly on the side of each car. I point the blame squarely on having just completed around 13 ours of flight time, not including my layover in Heathrow. It was to be expected that I wouldn't be quite with the program, right? Fortunately, being familiar with the region (and, more importantly, being familiar with how to read the transportation system maps clearly posted in the local trains featuring clearly labeled routes in clearly defined lines, not to mention the clearly visible digital updates and occassionally clear verbal announcements prior to each station) I realized my mistake as soon as the train headed back across the Main River. I waited to disembark until the appropriate station where the two train lines converged again, then caught the train I should have taken in the first place heading in the opposite direction.

But then there was yesterday. Without having first checked the schedules online, I headed to Mainz Hauptbahnhof, certain I would find a direct connection leaving for Baden Baden sometime soon. As a matter of fact there was one leaving... right this minute! I turned and ran to the stairs, only to see said train pull out of the station a mere two seconds before my feet landed on the platform. This train was definitely on time. But no problem: I only had 50 minutes to wait before another one. To pass the time, I headed out to take a few photos with the sun almost shining through he whiteness overhead. I was back at the station with time to spare.

Just how much time I had to spare wasn't immediately discernable, but I began to feel suspicious when, with only five minutes left before the scheduled arrival, the sign on platform four still remained blank, rather than listing the oncoming train information. I hopped nimbly up the stairs to the main hall to check the supersized arrivals board, only to find that my train wasn't even mentioned. Huh?

Too proud to ask for help when I figured I still had few minutes to remaining and could spare myself the embarassment, I scrutinized the yellow departures sign back down by the tracks. It was then that I noticed the tiny asterisk below the train number. Whatever this meant, it couldn't be good. There, below the full listing of stops the train would make once leaving Mainz, small italics noted: 29, 30 Dez. This train, apparantly, only ran on December 29th and 30th. How convenient. Every other day of the year, I realized when I scrolled further down the listing searching for my next option, it left Mainz one hour later. I had another 60 minutes to wait.

Still, the train showed up on time, and I had a wonderful afternoon in Baden Baden, with time to addmire the wonderfully efficient German city bus system, where each stop has a name, all routes are cleaerly outlined at every stop, automatic machines issue tickets and provide change, and LCD screens even illustrate where the bus is headed once you are on board. Seattle, you have a long, long way to go.

The Last Days

If anyone has actually been reading this blog, you may have noticed a lack of posts for several days, largely owing to a lack of cheap, easy internet access (I really need to get a Netbook!). But since I have fifteen more minutes of internet time at the moment, here's a quick rundown of what was missed:

• Enjoying a taste of Italy in lovely Nafplio, with real gelato and a Venetian style old town
• Hiking to the far reaches of the Palamidi fortress in Nafplio
• Enjoying a group meal at a real, non-touristy local taverna in Nafplio, complete with live music and folk dancing - all in some very close quarters (this was about the most fun I had while on this trip)
• Being amazed by the great ruins of the Myceneans, getting up close with architecture that is more than 3000 years old
• Listening to groups singing and reciting from ancient Greek plays in the theatre at Epidavros
• Our group dog, Winnie, who met us when we arrived on Hydra, and was never far away - she even came out to the ferry with us the day we left, and stayed until we boarded the hydrofoil. Michael wanted to adopt her and bring her home to live with us and Lucy (seriously, he was actually considering this)

Greece has been fantastic, and I am convinced that trip to northern Greece is in order for the future - there's so much that we didn't have time to see in three weeks! But for now I'm happy to be heading home, because the cement hard beds of this country can't compare to my own sweet bed at home. And while we'll all miss Winnie, I can't wait to see my own dear dog, Lucy.

Sick and Tired

Waking up at 3am feeling naseous is never a pleasant feeling. After a free day spent hiking and and swimming on the island of Hydra, followed by a group dinner featuring rabbit and goat (and rather a lot of wine), I went to bed feeling pretty wonderful, then awoke four hours later feeling pretty terrible. Was it the tap water I'd consumed in an effort to rid myself of the hiccups prior to bed? The tap water on Hydra is slightly saline and not recommended for drinking, although it shouldn't make you sick. I hadn't had that much to drink, had I? Unfortunately, it appeared that I had been hit by the same bug that hit Michael the night we were in Dimitsana last week, when he, too, had spent the wee hours primarily in the bathroom.

The night was an uncomfortable one, my body racked by chills and intense stomach pain. By around 7am the chills had subsided and, in sheer exhaustion, I was able to fall back asleep. The exhaustion coninued the entire day, where I managed to sleep sitting on a bench in the rain while we waited for the ferry, on the extremely bumpy hydrofoil ride to Athens, all afternoon at the Athens hotel, and all night after skipping out on the last night's dinner due to excruciating pain.

Thankfully, this morning I awoke feeling... hungry. I hadn't felt hungry for more that 24 hours - even the thought of food made me naseous - so this was progress. I am still not back to 100%, but am truly grateful to be through the worst of it. It may not have been the most glamorous end to our trip, but I'm looking on the bright side: our flight doesn't leave Athens until tomorrow morning, a day after the tour officailly ends, which gave us the opportunity to sleep in and take our time packing this morning. Tonight, we'll be heading to the airport for the night, since I don't see the point in paying for a hotel when we have a 6:30am flight. I love travel, but there's nothing like getting sick on the road to make you appreciate your health and home.

Monemvasia

While the beach is rocky, the crystal clear waters of Monemvasia's beaches is still enticing, especially on a warm day like today. Michael and I, anticipatingly the warm water we'd sampled (hands only) in much colder Kardimyli, waded in eagerly.

"Oy! Cold!" I cried.

The water was not so warm after all.

But while each step exposed new skin to a shock of cold, the reality was that it only took a few seconds to adjust, and soon we were swimming in the soothing salt water. Joined by two others in our group, we found ourselves drifting further and further from shore with very little effort. Before long we realized we were more than half way to the rock island that put Monemvasia on the map. The challenge was on! We swam all the way to the island's pier, then managed to make it back through now choppy waters.

We'd visited the island earlier in the day, learning about squirting cucumbers and all other manner of plant life from our guide, David. We hiked to the ruins of the citadel, winding up the steep sides of the natural rock fortification, marveling at the sweeping views of the village below and the deep blue Mediterranean. Michael, attracted by the idea of making as many cucumbers squirt as possible, found a long, thorny stick with which to poke them. The small, prickly wild cucmbers really do squirt - somettimes spraying people as far as five feet from the offending cuke. It's a strangely addicting habit, walking along poking at little green globes in hopes you'll get it to explode.

We decided to commemorate our time in Monemvasia with a poster print of the town created by a local artist. Stylistically rendered, the poster shows the town nestled against the rocky bluff, ruins and the church of Agia Sofia dotting the hilltop. The artist himself showed me the work he was currently finishing - he painstakingly inked each dot and line to sreate a web of miniscule geometric designs framing boxes of color.

"I've worked on this for one month, every day," he told me.

I was impressed with his dedication, and asked if I might take a photograph with him, showing the man behind the art.

"No, take a picture of the posters," he said. "I am nothing."

Nothing, that is, if not modest.

But Monemvasia has been a highlight of the trip for me so far, and thanks to him, I will have always have a way to remember it.

The Greek Odessey Continues

Lest you think that Greece is nothing more than a paradise where the sun shines 365 days a year - it is not. A couple of days ago, upon leaving Delphi and heading into the mountains of the Peloponnese Peninsula, we were caught in heavy fog and even heavier rain on our free day in the coastal town onf Kardamyli. Thankfully, the clouds broke today, leaving us with blue skies to explore the Mani Peninsula and our arrival tonight in Monemvasia.

Leaving Kardamyli this morning, we headed deeper into the Mani, first stopping at the tiny (population 40) hill town of Kastania. After a tour of the orthodox chapel-studded village, we sat under the trees for Greek coffee and locally made cheese.

Our lunch stop in the (almost) equally tiny town of Gerolimenas fulfilled everyone's vision of the sunny Greek coastal village that we had missed out on during our rainy stay in Kardamyli. Pale aquamarine water lapped over blindingly white, smoothly polished rocks. The restaurant terrace put us directly above the bay, where we could enjoy views of the water with our lunch of Greek salad, tzatziki, calimari, crispy Mediterranean anchovies (nothing like the kind that, as our guide David put it, "live on pizza in the U.S.A."), artichokes, and green beans in tomato sauce.

But the real entertainment came after lunch, when some decided to roll up their pants and test the water temperature. Lovely - yet treacherous. Those polished white stones proved to be quite slippery when wet, and one woman ended up thoroughly soaked after taking an unexpected tumble. Myself, I was safely on shore with my camera, documenting it all, of course.

But the excitement didn't end there. A Greek fisherman, enjoying lunch with his family, spotted dinner from their waterfront table and promptly went down to get it. The unsuspecting octopus he grabbed was soon the center of attention, trying vainly to wriggly out of the man's grasp. He ended up in a small blue plastic bag, and although he made a valient attempt at a daring escape, he was not fast enough to escape the fisherman, who prompty tightened the knot in the bay (and, we suspect, put the octopus swiftly out of his misery once our group had left).

The forecast for tomorrow is for clouds, but I still feel optimistic. And if it's sunny after all, you may just find me in the water as well - intentionally, of course. I have no plans to fall in clothes and all - I packed too light for that!

The Wisdom of Delphi

A great guide brings a sight to life. Instead of seeing a pile of rubble on a hillside, the caved-in faces of unknown people from more than two millenia ago on crumbling marble remains, the guide gives you the chance to see the temple in its former glory, to understand the story behind the statues and the all-too-human triumphs and tragedies that they represent.

In Athens, our tour group had the pleasure of a guided tour through the Acropolis and Ancient Agora, followed by a trip to the Archeological Museum this morning. We learned to tell archaic statues from severe, the severe from the classical, and the classical from the hellenistic. We imagined the processions that would wind their way up the Acropolis Hill every four years in honor of Athena's birthday, making their way through the massive gates and ending in front of the Parthenon, the grand temple to the virgin.

But my favorite experience so far has been this afternoon's trip through the museum and archeological site at Delphi. Leaving metropolitan Athens behind, we find ourselves surrounded by rocky, pine forested mountains, with towns clinging precariously to cliffsides. Our guide, Penny, was bursting with enthusiasm to show us the amazing artifacts in the Delphi Museum, and to remind us of those ancient stories - from the the Trojan War to Oedipus Rex - that, with the right perspective still have so much to teach us today. The famous Oracle at Delphi was, after all, a place where people went in search of answers, and when all was said and done, it seems the most important answers were the ones insribed above the temple: "Know thyself", and "Everything in Moderation".

"The answers were not vague," Penny told us. "They were open to interpretation."

One story, an unfamiliar one to me previously, sticks with me in particular. In the museum, archaic statues of two larger-than-life twins stood. "They are the happiest men," Penny told us. "Why do you think that would be? I'll tell you later!"

At the end of the tour, however, Michael and I realized we still had not heard the full story, so we questioned Penny on her own.

"As a parent, what do you most wish for your children?" she asked. Not being parents ourselves, we weren't sure what to answer. Penny told us the story of a rich king who came to the oracle, wondering whether he should engage in war with the Persians or not. The oracles response was, typically, up to interpretation. Unfortunately, the king made the wrong choice, started a war in which he lost all his riches and his kingdom - the things he had mistakenly believed brought him happiness - and found himself about to be burned to death by the Persian king.

Before this tragedy befell him, however, a very different event had taken place back home. In honor of their mother, the queen, a celebration was being held at the temple. Two oxen were supposed to draw the chariot seven miles to the temple, but the oxen were nowhere to be found. Wanting nothing more than to bring honor to their mother, the two twins of the famed statues took the place of the oxen and they themselves pulled the chariot to the festival. Upon their arrival they collapsed, exhausted but happy.

Their mother, pleased with her heroic sons, asked the gods to favor them for their deed. In the morning, the two young men were found dead, having peacefully passed on in their sleep.

"This," Penny continued. "Is as much as you can hope for: to die in peace, with no suffering, having done a great thing."

Finally, on the pyre about to be torched to death, the former king remembered his sons and the words of the oracle, and realized how mistaken he had been in his choices. On voicing his newfound realization to the Persian king, the Persian ruler ruler realized that here was a wise man indeed, and rather than killing him, offered him a position as his very own counselor.

So, in the end, he learned from his mistakes, and took responsibility for his errors. This, our guide told us, is what we can still learn from today. No matter what anyone may say, we are all responsible for our own actions, and within each of us is the ability to find our own happiness in the things that truly matter, and to make a wrong situation right.

Athens Aglow

The Greeks love the nightlife. Any day of the week, they can be seen strolling the streets, stopping in clubs, sipping drinks at sidewalk cafes, and heading out for dinner as late as midnight, with the entire family in tow. And Athens, at least in October, is the center of it all. In the islands I felt languid in the evenings, happy to dawdle over a slow-paced meal at a local taverna. In Athens, I felt energized, surrounded by hundreds out for a Sunday night on the town.

Michael and I wound our way through the ancient streets of the Plaka as dusk settled over the city. Without even trying, we found ourselves on top of Mars Hill, a glorious view of the Acropolis and the incredible urban sprawl of Athens at our feet. It was almost enough to take one's breath away.

After drinking in the view, we set off for a three course dinner on the move. First stop: gyros on the go. On traditional and one pork, along with a Coke 0 for Michael, for less than five euros. If only cheap, fast food in the U.S. could be so delicious!

Next up: gelato in the Psyrri district. Disappointingly, the gelato was not up to Italian standards. Plus, it cost more than our gyros! But we strolled the streets nearby as we ate every last lick, peering into clubs blasting house music from what looked like an English pub on the outside, to restaurant floors carpeted in carnation petals while the staff tidied up for the night, to ultra mod night spots where it was evidently still far to early, even on a Sunday, for a crowd to have gathered.

Wandering the back streets, I let Michael take charge, but not without first speculating, "Where are we going?" Instead of streets lined with stings of twinkling lights and crowded cafe tables, we were surrounded by dilapidated buildings dark alleyways.

But then, rounding a corner, we saw the perfect little bar for our final course - ouzo for Michael, campari for me. With orange walls and crazy lamps strung together out of bits of glass, old silverware, and curling scrap metal, we took our seats on tall stools at the open window. In the corner, a jazz band set up to play, and Athenians in their thirties gradually packed in the tiny spot while the DJ spun a variety of songs. We were, in fact, the only non-Greeks there. As the band played, we nodded in time with the music, drinking in the scene. You never know what you might find around a dark street corner.

We got back to our hotel around 10:45 - very early for an Athenian, but just about right for us. Monday would be a long day, full of more discoveries in the incomparable Athens.

Athens Ahoy!

After a relaxing ferry ride (note of advice: when riding Greek ferries, bring card games, books, and bakery treats from town to make the time pass quickly) on Sunday, we left the laid back islands behind for Athens. From the moment we stepped off the boat, it was clear we were is a different world. Far from shutting down for the season, the port of Piraeus was hopping with black market vendors, cab drivers soliciting the new arrivals, and swarms of dazed-looking tourists. We headed straight for the metro station. Hotel Tempi, where we would be staying for one night only before joining the Rick Steves' tour, was an easy, direct metro ride away on line one, and we were eager to get settled in.

But, as with many of our transportation experiences in Greece, it wasn't quite so simple. Point in case: for two days only, most of metro line one was closed. We arrived on one of those two days.

After checking the advice of a ticket counter clerk and a random man-on-the-street, we decided to hop the metro and take it three stops - the end of the line for the day. According to man-on-the-street, from there we could catch a bus to Monastiraki Square, a short walk from our hotel.

Things started off well. We managed to fit (but only just) on the bus heading into the center of town from the last metro stop. When I literally fell into the back door as the bus rounded a corner, I was kindly offered a chance to squeeze in to the one remaining seat in the back. Now all I had to do was keep an eye out for Monstiraki; how hard could that be?

Dang near impossible, it turns out. It finally dawned on me we must have overshot our mark, so I asked the woman sitting across from me on the now half-empty bus, "Pou ine Monastiraki?"

My Greek was apparently good enough to encourage the woman to discuss with me, and then another woman one seat up, in great detail about the location of this place in relation to the bus. Throughout the conversation, I could occasionally make out the word, "Monastiraki," but not another syllable. Fortunately, I did correctly deduce that we should get off at the next stop, which turned out to be about a mile down the road from where I'd first asked the fateful question. No doubt about it, we were far, far away.

But the fates were on our side! The next stop was conveniently located at an entrance for metro line two, and before long we were on a speeding underground train, emerging at Omonia Square, and walking down the pedestrian street to our hotel. Athens, here we come!

The Long and Winding Road

On Saturday, our last full day in the islands, we found ourselves with a full free day. Having spent the last couple of days on the very quiet island of Antiparos, we decided to explore a little further afield. After an early afternoon visit to Antiparos's famous cave (previously visited by Lord Byron, whose etched his name in the limestone, along with thousands of others, for posterity), we hopped on the ferry to Paros, only a quick ten minute jaunt across the water. From there you can catch the bus to the port town of Parikia.

Usually, the buses are scheduled to line up with the ferries, but at this point no bus was in sight. I checked out the schedule posted, and saw two distinct schedules listed side by side. Handily, the titles of these two schedules were written only in Greek, despite the fact that there was an English translation of everything else. To further confuse matters, the only difference between the two schedules was that one listed a bus departin at 13:25 - coincidentally the time of our arrival - and one did not. Hmm...

After waiting around for fifteen minutes, I grew impatient. No one else loitering around the stop was Greek, and they seemed to have complete faith that a bus would come. But me, I don't always like waiting. As usual, I decided I'd rather walk, and convinced Michael we should make a go for it.

"How far away is Parikia?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. But it can't be that far. It was what, maybe a fifteen minute bus ride?"

Thus we found ourselves walking along a road with no shoulder, clearly not meant for pedestrian traffic. But we had scarcely gone two minutes when a van pulled to a stop alongside us.

"Where are you going?" asked the driver. "Parikia? I can get you half way there."

We clambered aboard, joining the two other passengers, who, it turns out, were on their way to the Paros tennis club.

"It's the finals today. Romania against Croatia. Who are you for?"

When I paused to think, the driver encouraged, "Go for Romania!"

"He likes the Romanian best," the man sitting next me informed us.

"And you?" I asked. But it turned out our fellow riders were the referees for the match - no favorites allowed.

Before long we had reached the club, and waved good-bye to our Good Samaritan driver. Ahead of streched the long, winding, shoulder-free road. Thankful for the ride, we realized we would have had wuite a long walk had they not come along.

Almost an hour later, after much grumbling about dodging the traffic, not knowing where we were, tired feet, and hunger, we made it to the old town of Parikia around 3:00. Famished, we sat down at a waterfront bar for fantastic dolmades and souvlaki pitas. It's amazing what a good meal can do for one's mood.