Travel Gretta Talks. A Lot.

How My Sister Packs For Christmas

2011-12-26T16:07:00.000-08:00

Middle sister, Jessie, is here for five days. She arrived at noon on December 24, and is leaving around the same time on December 29. She brought a monster bag, weighing over fifty pounds (until she put some things into a duffel for the flight). She could not remember what she had packed, and I knew it wasn't presents because she is Princess Gift Card (I am not belittling the gift card - I love the gift card, and gave out quite a few, myself, this year - I am simply making the point that none of the over-50 pounds were presents). Since she accumulated around 7-10 extra pounds worth of Christmas loot, from Santa, she was concerned about the luggage weight for her return to Denver.

"Gretch, come look at my bag and help me figure out why it is so heavy". Okay. There were the requisite, normal, three pairs of jeans (good), one sweaterdress (good), one pair of tights to go with sweaterdress (uh hunh), one heavy, clunky belt (fine, but wear it on the way back, what is it made of, iron?), and then four long-sleeved shirts that didn't really go with anything else in the bag, and that's where the logic unraveled. The remaining contents to be sung to the tune of "The 12 Days of Christmas"...

Eight pairs of socks
Seven similar sweaters
Six pairs of undies
FIVE, FANCY BRAS (who are you planning to see while you're here?)
Four workout outfits
Three pairs of pajamas (?)
Two pairs of boots
and a bikini with heavy metal clasps

We do not have a hot tub. I must also mention that two of the seven similar sweaters were actually closer to identical: black, wool turtleneck. She was wearing one, when I pulled another one out of the bag and held it up. She laughed. I think she does it on purpose so she can borrow my stuff. "I thought about packing my puffy down coat, but it didn't fit. Can I borrow yours?" Last year she had to borrow my socks, though, so...baby steps.

(Big finish) AND A BIKINI WITH HEAVY METAL CLASPS.

I hope everyone had a fabulous holiday!

Vicarious Movie Travel

2011-12-04T14:31:00.000-08:00

I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, but I shore is goin' places on muh teevee. Turner Classic Movies continues to expand my (unnecessary) familiarization with old-timey movies, and I commented, to no one in particular, "Hey, a lot of these old-timey movies take place on ships". (My dad mistakenly took that as an invitation to one of his long-winded explanations about how, in those days, ship travel was the way most people..."No!" I shouted, "It was just an observation!" I had to cut him off. I was missing precious snappy dialogue.)

Today I sailed on the S.S. Queen Anne from Southampton to New York with Myrna Loy and William Powell in "Libeled Lady", from 1936.

Don't be fooled by the poster, the movie was a classic black & white. I curse the people who colorize the classics. It looks wrong. Like your two-year old got into your rouge and powder and smeared it all over the filmstrip.

If you love fashion, but think "I don't like black & white movies", you need to re-evaluate your likes and dislikes, toute suite. Oh my God, everything Jean Harlow wore had fur sleeves, including her nightgown.

Never mind that Ms. Harlow forgot her bra for the duration of the film, the clothes were astounding. Each new scene had me blurting out things like "Fur sleeves!" and "Her dress matches the furniture!" and "Why is she still not wearing a bra?"

She's on the phone to the costume department, asking the same question.

I watch a lot of old movies, and often find myself wondering "How did they get their hair like that?"

People put effort into it back then. Jean Harlow and Spencer Tracy were not on the ship, though, let's get back to that.

I mean, the hats alone warrant a celebration. Black tie and gowns for dinner. And more fur!

This was not a Carnival Cruise.

Eventually they disembarked, but the fashion kept coming.

I think those were real flowers on her dress.

I don't know how I have lived this long without having seen this movie. It was hilarious, clever, entertaining, and insane with the fashion. Maybe I should spend less time traveling, and more time on the couch with TCM.

Mercury is Retrograde

2011-12-01T17:19:00.000-08:00

"Mercury is retrograde" is a phrase I frequently employ when, in fact, Mercury IS retrograde. It helps explain the myriad communication snafus that result when the planet Mercury appears to be going backwards. "Oh, you didn't get that email? Yeah, Mercury is retrograde." Or "You tried to call me yesterday? I didn't get a message. But that's okay, because Mercury is retrograde."

Or as Astrology.com explains it:

A planet is described as retrograde when it appears to be moving backwards through the zodiac. According to modern science, this traditional concept arises in the illusory planetary motion created by the orbital rotation of the earth with relation to other planets in our solar system.

Since I just took a 2-hour walk with my dad, who talks like that all the time, rendering the simplest sentence nearly unintelligible, I just read "A planet is described as retrograde when it appears to be moving backwards, blah blah blah science, blah blah solar system."

That is neither here nor there. What IS here AND there is that Mercury tends to foul up any and all communication. What say you about this, Astrology.com?

In general, Mercury rules thinking and perception... and all means of communication...By extension, Mercury rules people who work in these areas, especially those who work with their minds or their wits: writers and orators...

AHA! That explains it! And I'm only kind of laughing at the word "orator".

Another thing that is here AND there is that the Brand New Book I Wrote is now officially listed on Amazon as available for pre-order, and NO ONE TOLD ME! WHA???? That is correct. I was going about my merry business on Facebook, and joking around with one of my friends, who then made a joke about pre-ordering my book, and I was all "oh, har har, yep". Then he came back with a "Whoa, a real entry and everything. Nice." This comment gave me pause. Not pregnant pause, not kitty-cat paws, but serious "Hang on a second, what is he talking about" pause. And before I could press "un-pause" I was over at Amazon typing in the title of my book, and you know what? IT WAS THERE.

Hellooooooo book! I was not appraised of this new development! I immediately sent an email to my editor (whom I love) with "AHEM" in the subject line, because cyber-coughing always gets people's attention. I demanded (in my nicest, non-all-caps, email voice) to know why I had to find out about this via a friend on Facebook, rather than a singing chocolate-shoe-gram, like all the really important authors. She still hasn't responded. And it's not just because I'm not a really important author. It is because? Anyone? Bueller?

It is because Mercury is retrograde.

Gearing Up For A Happy Christmas

2011-11-29T23:29:00.000-08:00

I love Christmas, and I love London, and Claridge's knows precisely how to combine those two loves and make them even better:

Lanvin's creative director, Alber Elbaz, designed this and explains “The concept of the Christmas Tree decoration is to create an installation that carries the spirit of Lanvin, an infusion of tradition and modernity at the same time. The tree is to emanate and bring heartwarming joy to all who work and stay as guests at Claridge’s hotel..."

Mission accomplished. Now, you can bring me some of that heartwarming joy in the form of your famous elegant flats.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2011-11-23T19:58:00.000-08:00

Out of curiosity, I Googled "best place to celebrate Thanksgiving". One site claims they "rely on quantifiable information to construct our studies", which was good enough for me. I get most of my information from Wikipedia.

The best place to celebrate Thanksgiving, according to my scientific search, is Akron, Ohio, due to its Midwestern location (although many Ohioans claim to be from the East Coast), and the number of people invited to dinners and the number of dishes served.

I still think it would be most fun to return to Plimouth Plantation to partake in a 17th Century feast. A "charger of Holland cheese and fruit" would really hit the spot right about now.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

It's Raining. I'm Cold.

2011-11-17T17:45:00.000-08:00

We're deep into November. Do you know where your vacation plans are?

Weekend In Seattle - spoiler: it rained

2011-10-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I took a little trip up to the place I used to call "home", Seattle. As was typical, the weather forecast was this:

So typical, as I had made a hair appointment for Friday, and planned to have the nice hair-do girl flat-iron it. Flat-ironed hair makes you look skinnier. Of course it was going to rain, and undo all that visual hocus pocus. I came close to investing in one of these:

But then did not. I did, however, pack these:

I love shoes, and it's impossible to pick a favorite pair, but these boots have done me proud, ever since I purchased them last November. Living in Seattle (or other Pacific Northwest city) and not owning proper rain boots is just silly. It's the difference between grumbling about ruined suede pumps and happily splashing through puddles in your protective armor.

My friend Ellen was flying in from San Francisco to meet me, and we needed a cute but mostly convenient hotel. I gambled on a cheapie Hotwire mystery hotel (4-star only with the gambling, though), and was rewarded with the Hyatt Olive 8:

Excellent, central location, and there were robes. We were just a few blocks from one of my all-time favorite eat-y/drink-y places, Tango. We sat in a booth, clinked our sangria glasses, nibbled on bacon-wrapped dates and laughed like this, "Ha! Haha!" After enough sangria it seems perfectly logical to order a calorie-and-fat-laden dessert, even when your hair is not making you appear any skinnier.

I dragged Ellen to all the must-see spots in Seattle, and would post photos of those, if we had any that weren't ruined by rain. We stuck to indoor pursuits like consignment-shop shopping at My Dressing Room in Queen Anne, and Fury in Madison Park. I refrained from spending (back pat).

Later, we met up with friends and indulged:

Wine bars are my favorite thing, and the Local Vine is one of my favorite-ist. Ellen plans to return to Seattle when the weather is nicer. So, next August.

I Changed the Header Photo

2011-10-16T11:06:00.000-07:00

You know, because it's fall and such. You shouldn't wear heeled sandals while kicking through colorful leaves.

I Just Can't Get Left. Or Right.

2011-10-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

To wrap up my two-week genealogy road-trip extravaganza, I drove from Providence, to the Catskills, then back to Syracuse to return my rental car. The fall foliage complied.

What did not comply was the New York state highway system. Traffic was moving at a zippy pace, and there was nowhere to pull over and photograph all the splendor. I was Clark Griswold caught in the roundabout in London. "I can't seem to get over to the left, honey." There was no left, there was no right. There was no side.

The dashboard is an unwelcome frame for my masterpieces. I was gasping and marveling at all the splendor, and then feeling abnormally panicked that I would not have proper opportunity to share said splendor with everyone else, shrieking aloud to no one, "Why are there no gravelly shoulders for pulling over?!" So, keeping my eyes on the road, would hold out my right arm with camera and click intermittently. I do not recommend this.

Please just try to imagine how beautiful the leaves looked. The camera adds ten pounds, and also seems to subtract ten times the prettiness of the colors. It was a stunning, stunning drive. Happy fall!

Divine Providence

2011-10-09T12:52:00.000-07:00

When traveling you should always try to ignore the things that irritate you about a new place. Irritatedness (I know, not really a word) is probably not close to Godliness. (And although "irritatedness" is not a word, I would still like to see that cross-stitched on a pillow.)

Ignore the fact that Google maps directions failed to take into consideration the Gloria Gemma 5K for Breast Cancer Awareness, when suggesting you take Exit 22A to reach the Hotel Providence, in Providence, R.I.
Ignore the fact that, once you've driven ten blocks out of your way, you discover that the street your hotel is on, Westminster, is broken up into two separate sections. The one you've finally managed to erroneously find yourself on is in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood.
Ignore the fact that, once you finally locate the correct section of the street, you find it is a one-way, and nearly impossible to access going the right way.
Ignore the fact that although your hotel's address is 311 Westminster Street, the entrance (and visible sign) is actually half-way down the cross-street of Matthewson, which, as far as you are concerned, could also be called Not Westminster.
Ignore the fact that you later notice, while walking several streets up, that there is a sign for Hotel Providence on Westminster St., although it is placed far too high up on the building to be visible from the street - where you were driving and desperately searching for a hotel sign.
Ignore the fact that the hotel offers valet parking for $26 overnight.
Ignore the fact that you have not eaten in five hours.

Come on, Sunshine! Turn it around! Find that silver lining!

The Gloria Gemma 5K provided an awesome visual of a sea of pink shirts against the red brick of downtown Providence. Plus, it was for a good cause.
The somewhat sketchy neighborhood had a Shell station where gas was $3.49/gallon. That was the lowest you've seen in two weeks, and you needed to fill up.
You got an unplanned tour of the city.
You are now intimately familiar with the location of Aspire Restaurant, because it's location (and massive signage) is precisely where the hotel would have been, if it's address had actually been 311 Westminster.
Should you arrive via helicopter next time, that sign (that is placed far too high on the building) will be invaluable.
You find a nearby parking lot where the guy agrees to let you park overnight, for $20, and you don't have to leave the lot until around 10am the next day.
You walked down one block, and found this:

This is your new Providence Happy Place. Today, Korean food is providing the comfort and solace you need after too many hotels, too many Google maps and too many weeks of road-trip travel.

It looks messy, but that's only because you've already consumed half of it. It is delicious, and there's enough left over to eat later for dinner, when you are relaxing in your hotel room

which is not on Westminster Street.

And after blustering on and on about the hotel's address, you check the hotel's website and see that they list the address as 139 Matthewson St. However, you made all your arrangements through Tablet Hotels, which lists the address as 311 Westminster, and that is the address you had written in your daily planner, and it is the address you typed into Oct 9 in Microsoft Outlook, and it is the address you plugged into Google maps.

You might now direct your rage toward Tablet Hotels, if not for the melodic bonging of the bells from Grace Episcopal church, right across the street. Please refer to your cross-stitched pillow.

*If the Tablet Hotel's link to Hotel Providence shows the address as 139 Matthewson, it is only because I have (possibly politely) notified them of their egregious error.

Plimouth Plantation

2011-10-07T17:17:00.000-07:00

This hotel was awful.

*UPDATED 11/4/2011

Kara's comment made me laugh really hard, and then think "Yes, I should probably explain further."

These photos were taken at one of the homes on Plimouth Plantation, in Plymouth, Massachusetts. It's an amazing recreation of the first Pilgrim settlement - an entire village with thatched-roof houses and gardens and livestock and people dressed in old-timey 1620's garb, talking in old-timey 1620's fashion.

It was one of those experiences I wish I could have had on an off-day, when everyone else was somewhere else. It's too hard to get into the 1620's spirit when you're surrounded by sweaty tourists in football jerseys and Crocs. I, on the other hand, was appropriately clad in my apron, full skirts and sensible shoes [falls off couch laughing].

Whose Vineyard?

2011-10-06T17:15:00.000-07:00

In the Olden Days it was written about as both Martin's Vineyard and Martha's Vineyard, and no one seems to be able to explain what happened there.

Maybe it was because people took photos like this, which covered up a significant part of the name, and then everyone just had to guess which letters were behind the awning? Or they took photos like this:

There's definitely a pattern of missing information here.

The self-professed Governor Thomas Mayhew was my 11th Great Grandfather, who established the first English colony on Martha's (or Martin's) Vineyard, in what is now known as Edgartown (which may have been named for the Duke of York's first son, Edgar). Ta-da!

I found three street signs named after "my people".

#1) Mayhew - Thomas, and his daughter Hannah (who was my 10th Great Grandmother).

#2) Norton - Nicholas Norton, my 10th Great Grandfather, his son Benjamin Norton, my 9th Great Grandfather, Benjamin's brother Isaac Norton (both my 9th Great Grand Uncle and my 10th Great Grandfather - when you can trace this far back, you find some weird stuff), and his daughter Hannah Norton (my 9th Great Grandmother).

#3) Daggett - John Daggett my 11th and 10th Great Grandfather (seriously - a lot of weird stuff), his son Thomas Daggett, my 10th Great Grandfather and my 9th Great Grand Uncle, who was married to Hannah Mayhew, and their son Joshua Daggett, my 9th Great Grandfather, who married Hannah Norton, and their daughter Martha Daggett, my 8th Great Grandmother who married Nicholas Norton. Who's dizzy?

This is Daggett House.

It used to be a B&B, and was rumored to be haunted by later-Daggetts.

"Daggett House Inn, haunted by the ghost of two brothers and their dog Laddie, who was shut into a secret room by one brother and starved to death. The younger brother caught pneumonia while searching for the dog and his brother drowned himself in remorse." (From Haunted Cape Cod & The Islands, Mark Jasper, 2002)

Although, I had read other accounts of a mentally disabled boy locked up in the secret room, and also one story of a boy and a dog. Definitely not happy ghosts.

And this is the plot of land once occupied by Gov. Thomas Mayhew and family and followers. I feel certain Grampy Mayhew would have wanted me to have this.

While they finally agreed to call it Martha's Vineyard, there were a number of years when people were calling it Martin's Vineyard. I think we can apply the same theory with Governor Thomas Mayhew's will. I am pretty sure when Grampy left the land, in his will, to Hannah, he really meant Gretta. It's a simple oversight. I'll have my lawyers look into it.

Milford, Not Just For Milfs

2011-10-05T16:19:00.000-07:00

Milford, Connecticut - Stop #7 on my Magical History Tour. A picturesque little town with a babbling brook running through the center, and a stately Memorial Bridge with venerable inscriptions honoring the town's founders.

I spent several hours in the Genealogy room at the Milford Public Library. Due to the probably top-secret contents of the collection, and the obvious cloak-and-dagger aspect of genealogical research (?), I had to sign in, but then had the entire room to myself.

I gleefully spread out maps, enormous leather-bound volumes and manilla folders all over the table, and began my searching - very content in my solitude. I then found myself rudely interrupted by a disheveled, bespectacled man, probably in his sixties, who dared encroach on my private top-secret, high-level security clearance, room. I scowled into my research as Mr. Interloper pushed the colonial map of Milford several inches in my direction, and then just took a book out of his grubby little backpack and started reading at my table.

He's not even doing research. He's just reading a regular book! It's probably not even a genealogy book!

I silently fumed, and thought, 'Sir, there are cubicles out in the main part of the library for people who aren't diligently researching genealogy - did you see the sign outside? The one that said Genealogy over the door? Who let you in? Well, I never! Don't you know who I AM?'

That's right. Without my 10th Great Grandfather, Captain Thomas Tibbals - memorialized on that bridge I mentioned earlier, you wouldn't have even had a town here, in which to build the Milford library, in which to create the super special, exclusively-for-researching, Genealogy room, and you'd be sitting with your cock-a-doodie backpack in the middle of a field somewhere, reading your non-genealogy book. (You're probably reading 'Twilight', and you don't want to be seen by the other library patrons, since you're not a sixteen year-old girl, but that is not my problem.) Are you still here?

The Reverend Peter Prudden was another one of my 10th Great Grandfathers, and that "voice of one crying in the wilderness" is going to be you if you keep sitting there, not researching genealogy in the Genealogy room.

Yes, the great town of Milford is a place where all can be free to wander about, or at least wander into the special Genealogy room of the library, even if they are clearly not researching anything. Milford is a place for, not just Milfs, or serious, dedicated out-of-towner researchers with an amazing ancestral connection to the town, but also for you sir, with your unkempt rumply appearance, smudgy spectacles, and your plain, old regular read-it-in-the-main-part-of-the-library-like-you're-supposed-to-novel. Welcome to Milford everyone!

My Ivy League Background

2011-10-04T16:30:00.001-07:00

I'm getting deeper and deeper into the ancestry, and deeper and deeper into New England. Settlers and Puritans and Pilgrims, OH MY. I had to visit a few places in Connecticut so I chose New Haven, specifically the New Haven Hotel, as my base for two nights.

This is one of the worst hotel room photos I've ever taken, but I was tired and couldn't find a good angle without stringing myself from the ceiling. There was no string in my suitcase.

The hotel itself was a relief, after having to drive through a moderately sketchy neighborhood to reach it. It was very W-esque. Not charming or quirky, but very efficient and comfortable: good bed, good water pressure, fitness room, free Wi-Fi, and was big enough to accommodate my luggage explosion without infringing on my relaxing space.

I wandered into town with the express purpose of buying sweats. Sweatpants, sweatshirt. I realized I really didn't have a proper "I give up" ensemble at home, and the best sweats are university sweats. The ones I got have pockets - you know, for snacks and stuff. I'm especially looking forward to wearing them and having a random person ask, "Oh, did you go to Yale?" and I'll say, "Yes I did." Only for about twenty minutes, but yes I did.

Hopefully Haunted Berkshires

2011-10-02T14:15:00.000-07:00

I had moderate success today with two cemetery visits in Upstate New York. I found a few ancestors on my list, which is always exciting, and I was able to photograph the headstones for extra assurance that my names, dates and places are correct in the family tree. Although most of the older headstones just look like this:

Stupid two-hundred years of weather and mold, obscuring all the details.

New Scotland Cemetery was my favorite, and my people had a beautiful spot under a big tree - possibly oak, possibly something else. I'm not an arborist.

This was by far the coolest headstone I've seen yet. It was as if the tree grew up right around it, and was sheltering it with a big hug.

I gave my long-gone ancestors a mental hug (not as snuggly as the tree hug, I know), and departed New Scotland. I headed down I 87S toward my next destination - Sheffield, Massachusetts, The Berkshires. Now, I know I described the Saratoga Arms as being "just like Granny's house", so please extend that description - but further back in time - to Staveleigh House:

Staveleigh House is just like Granny's house, if Granny had kept house in the early 1800s. I walked through the front door and into the 19th century, with original 1813 floorboards and everything. As I was creaking up the old stairs

I gleefully thought to myself "OH, I hope it's haunted!"

Little old-timey dolls are oftentimes an excellent indicator of "haunted". I asked my cute little proprietess Ali (emphasis on the "i") if my suspicions (hopes) were correct, and she paused a moment before assessing that my expression was more excitement than trepidation. She pulled out the drawer on the little writer's desk and withdrew a framed newspaper article titled "Bed and breakfast ghost". She explained it had been written by a very straight-laced woman who had spent a night in the same room I would be sleeping in tonight. Ali confided, "She and her husband were very Archie and Edith Bunker-type people", alluding to the fact that the story was more likely to be legitimate coming from them, as opposed to some goth witchy chick.

An excerpt from the article (which I could not find on Google):

"The bedroom door was closed but suddenly and forcefully swung open. The house being over a 100 [sic] years old, the floors slant. However, our floor slanted in the opposite direction, that is, towards the hall and not to our room's outside wall...I had to explain [to the proprietors] what had happened.
Dorothy [one of the previous proprietors] noted that their cat had been acting strangely and that one evening when they were entertaining, one of their guests, upon leaving, indicated that they had 'friendly spirits' residing in the house. She also related that on several occasions she had experienced fleeting sights of 'something' in their hallway."

(Do the italics add an element of spookiness? That's kind of what I was going for.)

I was thrilled, and wondered if the ghosts were watching me right now! Do they find me amusing? Are they impressed with how efficiently my suitcase is packed? Do they think I'm a really fast typer? Do they think these jeans make my butt look big?

I wonder what they think of Facebook.

Then I saw that the article was from 2000, and at the bottom the author had added, "We continue to return to the B&B every October, but have not experienced our 'ghost' again."

SAD FACE!

Ghosts, if you have internet access and are reading this, remember this room?

Come visit! But no door slamming, and nothing too scary. Maybe a little murmury chatting, and if you could conjure up a sweet 19th century dream for me (I never dream in past centuries, which bums me out), or if you happen to know my ancestor ghosts, and could provide the details of those worn-away headstones, that would be great.

Saratoga Springs - A One Horse Tow...oh wait

2011-09-30T17:38:00.000-07:00

See, because it's known for it's horse races you know. So there must be many, many horses. Not just the one. Oh nevermind.

I love, love, love this place. It is one of those clutch-your-hands-to-your-cheek-with-glee towns, and should be immediately commissioned for a snow globe. My camera is not good for nighttime photos, but please picture (if you will) a Broadway Avenue (which is really not at all broad - it's just two-lanes) with all the main stuff you'd want to find in a town, which is why it should be Main Street. Saratoga does have a Main Street, but it's not the main street. Anyway, Broadway is flanked by clouded-glass street lamps, and lively shops and restaurants with colorful awnings and Christmas lights.

On my genealogical quest for ancestral amazingness I dragged myself far out of my way in order to suss out a few ancient gravestones, in inconvenient, microscopic cemeteries that are not on the map. Not my map, not Google maps, not any maps. The harried ladies at the gas station hadn't even heard of the road I was looking for. I drove three hours in the wrong direction of Saratoga Springs (my eventual destination for today), only to find that the teensy cemetery (located off the mysterious County Route 7 in Montour Falls, New York) must have grown hungry, out there in the middle of nowhere, and eaten my ancestors' gravestones. I could only see very tip-tops of most of them, and the engravings had worn away. Sad Gretchen.

The resulting extra-long drive to Saratoga Springs left me a little fussy and a lot hungry, but I was rewarded with the adorableness of the town, and as I dramatically threw my belongings on the bed of my B&B I wailed to the empty room, "PLEASE have a wine bar! I'm sure they have a wine bar. I really need a wine bar."

There was even a projection of the bar's name onto the sidewalk in lights. Two blocks down the street from my charming, cozy B&B, which was charming and cozy in both real estate-speak, and regular-speak:

The Saratoga Arms is just like Granny's house, if Granny had an endearing fixation on horse racing, and smelled like Irish Spring. These are both things I enjoy.

Other things I enjoy:

And I totally earned the pear and cashew crisp for dessert. That road trip was exhausting. It was like I was a horse in a big, long race.

See what I did there?

The Glamorous Life

2011-09-29T06:11:00.000-07:00

I am in Syracuse, New York, and have found that while it does not rank amongst the top vacation destinations, (I mean for you people pfft, what do you know, taking the family to Albany all these years), it does have its charms.

In the interest of doing my amateur genealogy research, I've rented a sassy little Hyundai Accent from the Comb-over King at Alamo, and plan to toodle my way across New England, searching for proof of my existence (am actually writing book about ancestors, which sounds profoundly boring, but my ancestors are FANCY - I think...)

This hotel would be my favorite hotel ever, if it had fierce water pressure (it does not), and fluffy bath robes (it does not):

But look at how cute! Hotel Skylar is all sustainable and stuff. They recycle and use recycled materials, and I'm pretty sure could procure some recycled-material robes if they really wanted to. The low-flow shower-head just encourages me to condition my hair with its "natural oils", which means it's hat time. Does anyone else wonder if people just changed the spelling because the original (and I think British) spelling of Schuyler seemed too confusing? Hooked on phonics? Anyone?

Just in case you think I am just indulging in my typical vagabond slacking, I went here yesterday:

And a very nice lady in the research room pulled files for me and I did research. Tha's right, research. Research is one of those words that you only need to say five times before it becomes nonsensical.

After the research (probably not a word) I accidentally found this awesome place for lunch called The Mission, and the menu made me order too many things:

It had items that spoke to me in naughty whispers. Words like "plantains" and "sweet potato fries" and "tres leches cake". And I felt like I was doing something helpful by eating at a place that used to be a church, which used to be a stop on the Underground Railroad. I'm very philanthropic that way.

PHILANTHROPY!

And research.

Still Here, and Still Lazy

2011-09-20T15:01:00.000-07:00

I haven't been updating the TravelGretta so much. Mainly because I was all "Oh, no one is really reading it anyway", and then I got an email from someone I rarely hear from who said "And I'm still reading your blog!" Then I felt guilty.

Another reason I haven't been updating is because I've been busily editing my book (tentatively, but almost confirmedly titled "I Have Iraq in My Shoe"), which is slated for publication in April 2012.

AND I've also been working on a couple of other books. I'm all about the books now! But I have been taking a bunch of domestic trips, and really should have been popping in here to share a photo or two. Here's where I stayed (one night) in Palm Springs over Labor Day weekend:

The Colony Palms hotel is totally Old Hollywood - like '30s and '40s Old Hollywood. I know you're probably saying "Um, it's Palm Springs, not Hollywood", however, the little tour we took explained that in the early days of movie-making, the studio contracts stipulated that the actors could travel no further than 100 miles from Hollywood, in case they were needed for emergency movie stuff. Palm Springs is 90 miles from Hollywood, so many, many old-timey famous people bought homes there: Clark Gable & Carole Lombard, Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Dorothy Lamour. Old Hollywood.

My favorite meal was lunch at Cheeky's. The menu is constantly rotating, so you might not be able to order the most awesome sandwich ever (yams with cilantro, red onion, feta and tomato), but everything else looked great too. We went with my friend's uncle, who wasn't the most adventurous diner. He wanted IHOP or something with a sneeze-guarded buffet table. When he saw that the burgers were "grass-fed" he asked the waiter "Does that mean it's turkey?"

Vacation Ideas

2011-08-14T19:27:00.000-07:00

All places I haven't been.

1) Tarnation
2) Funky Town
3) Boogie Wonderland
4) Candyland
5) State of the Heart
6) Kingdom Come

From what I've heard, a few of these are really far away.

There's Nothing You Can't Do

2011-07-07T00:01:00.000-07:00

Now I'm in New York...I am all about rewarding myself, just for making a deadline. What? Lots of people can't do that! My birthday was approaching in July, and I desperately needed to catch the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art before it ended (in August). My editor said she would have edits back to me "around July 5", meaning I would need to be back at my parents' house to work on revisions during the rest of July. I had to get to New York before then. It was like a whole other deadline.

We couldn't not go to Brass Monkey, if for no other reason than to recreate the absurd Real Housewives of New York Bethenny/Kelly Killoren Bensimon showdown at the bar. My cousin Lars then treated his wife Sarah and me for dinner at The Spotted Pig, where I wasn't totally sober and only vaguely remember that one of us ordered the gnudi and I could not stop eating Lars' shoestring fries.

Ever since The Goring Hotel in London, I've become obsessed with High Tea. High Tea! It's dignified! You can play dress-up! There's fine china and tiny food! New York is fancy, so they could definitely accommodate my obsession. Tea at the Carlyle with my old roommate Ellie...

...bled into a couple of hours at Uva wine bar (order the truffle cheese).

The McQueen exhibit did not disappoint. Totally worth the hype. I spent about an hour and a half staring and shuffling through McQueen's crazy, dark, brilliant world, then back out into the bright sunlight. Four blocks back to the hotel, tottering in my polka dotted Alexander McQueen pumps (homage=pain), swapped pumps for flip flops and quickly checked my email. Wouldn't you know it? Barney's had just kicked their sale up to 60% off. Shoes! I'm coming, shoes!

We'll file them under "Birthday Shoes" so as not to appear gluttonous. I showed amazing restraint and only bought one pair. Dragged new black Barney's shopping bag, with only one pair of Birthday Shoes, over to Serendipity 3. I have yet to find Serendipity 1 and 2. Although it was late afternoon, there was still a line. There is always a line. It pays to travel solo sometimes, because I didn't have to wait for a table.

Don't question the Frozen Hot Chocolate. But if it's frozen, how can it be hot? Shhhhhh. Don't question it, just eat it.

Ah New York. I loves you. Those streets totally made me feel brand new. Well, the streets and the shoes.

Cabo San Silencio!

2011-06-06T23:58:00.000-07:00

The first draft of my manuscript (I wrote a book!) was due June 1. I let the weeks roll by, occasionally hammering out a few sentences here and there, and then when May sneaked up on me I panicked. The house was busy and noisy and distracting, and the weather was absolute shit. Dear Portland, You're green enough - ease up on the rain. Mexico seemed like the logical choice of destination where I could sit and finish my project.

Envisioning warm breezes and an ocean view I booked a room at the Pueblo Bonito Pacifico. "I just want to be able to see the ocean from the table where I'll be diligently typing away" was my thought. I also wanted a chance to cast off the Pacific Northwest winter pallor that made everyone look like they were engaged in a Kabuki performance. So, just those two things, really. Those were all I needed: Ocean view, and sun-time. And this lamp...

When I checked into my room I looked out onto my balcony and could only see the hotel's swimming pool, boooo. Disappointing.

Later, I ventured into the little town of San Jose del Cabo to pick up some food to keep in my room. Okay, yes, I was trying to drop a few pounds. That dreary Portland weather just makes me eat. Fat Kabuki is not a good look on me, so fruits, vegetables and salsa were on the menu. The hotel room description claimed there was a refrigerator. When I returned to the room with my healthy food options, I looked closely at the "refrigerator" and found a standard mini-bar, packed to the gills with non-healthy food options. I called the front desk and asked if they could please come up and clear out the mini-bar, just like any crazy rigid dieter would do when staying at hotels. I've read those tips in Shape, I know.

So far on my Mexican writing retreat: Ocean view? Denied. Sun-time? We would see. And a fridge for healthy food? Denied. The nice man at the front desk sounded genuinely sorry that they were unable to empty the mini-bar, and I must have sounded profoundly dejected because he asked me to hold. I spent the hold time rolling my eyes and wondering how I could keep my just-bought fruit from rotting over the next week. When he came back on the line Very Nice Front Desk Man asked if I would mind changing rooms, because he could put me in one with a full refrigerator. Wistfully looking around the room at everything I had just unpacked the previous day, I sighed and asked, "Will the room be exactly the same?" and he assured me, "Yes, everything exactly the same, but with refrigerator." Okay fine.

After packing everything up again, trudging down to the front desk, exchanging my old room key card for the new room key card, trudging back upstairs, and up an extra floor from where I had been, I opened the new room door and entered. And there, right in front of me, was the ocean view I had wanted. "Exactly the same" my ass. I wondered if a manager had been standing there, listening to Nice Front Desk Man who then had to pretend he wasn't giving me an upgrade.

I wasn't specific enough in my mental vacation/writing retreat request though. I forgot to ask for "quiet". The week was spent with one hour of pre-noon sun each day, then sitting at a heavy marble table, typing away in front of the screen door to the balcony, where I could see the ocean, feel and see the warm breezes waving through the palm trees, and could also hear the sharp whistle blasts and forceful shouts of the Activities Wranglers at the pool: "Okaaaaaaaaaaaaay, who ready for volleyball! YOU! YOU PLAY!" TWEEEEEEET! Not to mention the blaring confluence of Top 20 Pop, and Mariachi music that went on all day long.

Whatever, I lost a few pounds, got a tan, and finished the first draft of the book. Just not in time to join in the Water Aerobics Fiesta.

My Favorite Guinness

2011-03-17T12:57:00.000-07:00

Sometimes people will say to me "You have been EVERYWHERE!" which immediately makes me think of all the places I haven't been. Omagh, County Tyrone, Ireland is one of those places.

Well, actually, all of Ireland is one of those places, but I'm specifically focused on Omagh because, with my crazy fundamentalist-like obsession with Family Tree Maker I have found that my third great-grandparents came from the Old Country.

Isn't that a pretty Old Country? James McAnaney and Catherine McNamee made the trans-Atlantic voyage to the New World (or as we know it, Amurrrica) sometime between 1806 and 1836, when their first child, John, was born, in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. See? You're already thinking "I wonder if any of MY relatives came over from Ireland...I need to get a Family Tree Maker!" It is more addictive than Facebook. Or meth.

So now, not only do I have a perfectly legitimate excuse to visit The Emerald Isle, I have interesting family history research to do when I get there. I have been watching "Who Do You Think You Are?" religiously, and love that the subjects actually go to each place to find clues. I have found plenty of my own family information online, and even one of WDYTYA's executive producers, Lisa Kudrow, has admitted you don't really need to make all those trips to find the information. However, since I'm always looking for reasons to travel, I will ignore that. This is one trip that wouldn't just be another shopping/eating/drinking extravaganza. It would also have satisfying rewards at the end of the research rainbow. And Guinness.

I know that would have seemed more Irish if it had been a photo of a pint of Guinness, but a photo of Daphne Guinness is just so much more spectacular.

Enchanted Kensington Palace

2011-03-14T19:59:00.000-07:00

London's Kensington Palace is undergoing a 12 million pound (the Great British kind) renovation, which means we're not allowed to tour the palace in its typical state. The project began in June 2010, and is set to be completed by...I'm not sure.

The Historic Royal Palace website is beyond annoying, as it requires you to "read more" in a million places to try to figure out the in-a-nutshell synopsis of what is going on. It was only after clicking on "Buy tickets" that I was able to get this:

Kensington Palace is now the Enchanted Palace - a very different and immersive experience which fills the historic State Apartments with modern art and fashion installations plus experimental lighting until early 2012 whilst major building works to transform the palace take place.

Okay, so the bottom line is, the Enchanted Palace installation is available until "early 2012", which is what I needed to know for the purposes of this blog post. Sheesh.

After a very picturesque, but very mediocre tea service at the Orangery, I entered the Enchanted Palace.

What I really wanted to see was the Royal Ceremonial Dress Collection, which was not there - something about being stored to avoid dust or something - but the Enchanted Palace was such a magical fairy tale experience that I quickly forgot that I was missing out on something. The guide offers a pirate-like treasure-hunt map:

The "treasure" that you're looking for is/are the names of seven princesses who had all lived in the palace at some point. Every room marked with a red crown is one of the princess rooms, and you have to decipher the clues (or just look around the room) to discover the name of the princess.

Each room was stunningly created as a separate spellbinding story, complete with mysterious lighting, extravagant decor and eerie sound-effects. I wasn't supposed to take photos, but I truly didn't know that until after I took these.

I don't think there was a legitimate reason for this, other than the fact that they want you to purchase postcards of the various rooms from the Gift Shop.

I do not feel guilty about taking the photos, because I bought other stuff from the Gift Shop. I always do.

Between now and "early 2012" I highly recommend a visit to the Enchanted Palace. You could just go to the website to learn about it, but I am pretty sure it would take longer to get through the baffling, seemingly aimless maze of "read more" links, than it would to pack a suitcase, fly to London, visit the palace in person, buy some stuff in the Gift Shop, have tea at the Orangery, see a few other things around town, fly home and unpack your suitcase. And sometimes that unpacking part can take weeks.

London Airport Excitement

2011-03-11T20:48:00.000-08:00

Why do I never, ever see anything like this when I'm at Heathrow?

Photo credit: Pacific Coast News

Come on, Universe - hook a sister up.

Pour Manger?

2011-03-07T14:16:00.000-08:00

Two words you should learn in French, if you plan to visit La France, are "pour manger", which is what you will be asked in nearly every cafe or restaurant you enter. They want to know if you're there to eat (as opposed to merely sousing yourself in the tantalizing French wines).

Two places at which you should manger in Paris are:

As the nice place-mat says, Les Deux Magots. An establishment of establishments, which began as a drapery in 1813 and took it's name from a successful play at the time "The Two Magots of China". The term "magot" was used to describe (according to different sources) either Chinese commerical traders or Confucian wise men. The cafe was frequented by Jean Paul Sartre, Simone de Beauvoir, and Ernest Hemingway. And now me. I'm totally adding myself to that list of distinguished writers.

And...

Le Cigale Recamier. The souffles are insane. Lighter than the banter between Liz Lemon and Jack Donaghy, and fluffier than Kim Kardashian's tweets. I had the mini-souffle with mushrooms. I think. It might have had escargot...what does that look like to you? Right on top? Either way, it was delicious. And while I ordered a mini-caramel souffle for dessert, they brought me the monster size. Also delicious. I was too stuffed to take a photo by that point.

So, when they ask you "Pour manger?" you just say "OUI!"

Charade Is Charade in French

2011-03-06T23:12:00.000-08:00

I'm beginning to notice a trend: I'm idealizing my vacations to mirror Cary Grant movies.

On my last night in Paris, after a full day of running around, I turned on the Arte channel (looking for more Fashion Week documentaries) and giggly joy of joys! Charade was playing.

In French, but still. I've seen it enough times to know what's going on in any language.

The plot, characters and filming locations (all over Paris) are excellent, but what's really going on is the fashion. Vive Givenchy. I have no idea how I missed these options when trying to choose a train travel ensemble.

Ms. Hepburn looks justifiably horrified in that last photo, what with all my obsessing about hats and coats, I completely forgot about gloves.

However, as I'm leaving tomorrow, I'll have to worry about properly accessorizing for the next trip. I'm going to have Cary Grant drive me to Gare du Nord in the morning, after we stroll along the Seine.

Fashion Week - Paris

2011-03-05T12:47:00.000-08:00

Thaaaaaaaaaaat's right mesdames et messieurs, c'est Fashion Week in Paris.

Oh crap, I have nothing to wear.

I actually did have things to wear. However, for the fashion commoner the excitement of Fashion Week lessens a bit, when you realize that being a fashion commoner in Paris during Fashion Week is precisely like being a non-celebrity in Los Angeles during the Academy Awards. You're more of a glass-presser than anything else.

Very much outside looking in, no matter how fabulous your gloves.

After perusing Musee de l'Orangerie I wandered outside and saw this:

The throngs outside the Viktor & Rolf show. Sadly accepting that I would not be permitted inside the gates, I was happy enough to stand, leaning over a railing, and observe the fantastic circus for about ten minutes. I saw this cute little pixie, scrambling around, politely stopping the V&R attendees for photos.

She is apparently a very popular street-fashion photographer in Japan. I am a big fan of the street-fashion photographers, and was excited to spot the Godfather himself, Scott Schuman, hard at work.

I am still waiting, very impatiently, for that particular photo to appear on his blog so I can squeal "I saw him taking that!" to no one in particular.

It did seem like there were more than just a few ogling bystanders, and I saw many a flashbulb popping and scores of people craning their necks to see if they could see someone fabulous.

I had to remind myself that I had only a couple of days in Paris, and needed to focus on what was truly important.

Voila! C'est si bon.

The COUVEN Museum

2011-03-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

The craziness of Carnivale Thursday in Aachen has subsided, and I'm free to go about my business of running around, photographing and appreciating things. I really wanted to experience the Route of Charlemagne, as I've recently discovered he was my 38th Great Grandfather. Sadly, the tour is Geslotten, which is fast becoming my least favorite German word. The second thing on my List of Things To See in Aachen was the Couven Museum:

"The Couven Museum offers its visitors an insight into the style of living of the 18th and 19th century. A fascinating variety of high-quality furniture is on display as well as fine chimney pieces and Italian stucco work. Rococo and Aachen-Liège baroque create a harmonious ensemble. The Couven Museum also houses the Adler-Apotheke (pharmacy) where chocolate has been produced in in [sic] 1857 for the first time."

So sayeth the official Aachen tourism website. I love insight into earlier centuried styles of living! I also love high-quality furniture, harmonious ensembles and places where chocolate has been produced. I'm going to the Couven Museum.

I had actually located it, via Google maps, and found it to be right in the middle of Old Aachen, very close to where I had been frightened by all the costumed revelers. Old Aachen is not large, so it should be easy to find.

I passed a very cute shop selling fun accessories, and just ducked in for a bracelet and necklace. While handing over my Euros I asked the saleswoman where the Couven Museum was from there. She looked perplexed and said she had never heard of the Couven Museum. I showed her on my map, where I had circled the tiny lane and she nodded, but still looked confused and she explained that I should just turn right, and then left.

Five minutes of aimless wandering later, I decided to get a chai at Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks. It was right there, across from the statue of my 38th Great Grandfather on the main square, so I went in. I asked the cashier how to get to the Couven Museum. He said "Sorry, where?" I didn't bother with my map this time.

Why did no one know where this museum was? Old Town was probably, maybe twelve square blocks, total.

After asking a third shop-person, in the general vicinity of where the Couven Museum was supposed to be, and having her stare at me, blankly, I started to lose it a little, and decided to just ask permanent fixtures, who had been there undoubtedly longer than the fly-by-night salespeople at random shops.

I asked the Circulation of Money Fountain people: Do YOU know where the Couven Museum is?

They were too busy hiding money from each other, or slipping money to each other to answer me.

I asked the lion on the door of Aachen Cathedral: Do YOU know where the Couven Museum is?

But he allegedly has the Devil's thumb in his mouth, and was unable to answer.

At this point, I was practically shouting "THE COUVEN MUSEUM! COUVEN!" Why did no one know about this place?

I really liked this sculpture, but randomly ran into it, and have no idea what the significance is. It reminded me of my sisters.

They probably didn't know where the Couven Museum was either. I finally gave up and schlepped back to the Tourism office (where I had been the day before), and said to the woman behind the counter "I have been walking EVERYWHERE and I cannot find this museum", and she very kindly said "Oh it's very close by!" I did not roll my eyes. Outwardly anyway. She directed me to go out the door, right up the street, and then right again. That sounded easy. But when I was finally walking, down another very charming cobbled alley, surrounded by other people, I stopped and said aloud "This is wrong", and went to turn back. The woman behind me said, in English "I'll take you". She had been standing behind me in line at the tourism office, and had heard me nearly wailing about not being able to find this cock-a-doodie museum.

We turned around, and she pointed at a little alley that was SO secluded it was almost like the King's Cross station in Harry Potter, where you literally have to run into the wall to make the platform appear.

I give you, the Couven Museum:

Thankfully it was very charming, and exactly the kind of place I enjoy perusing on European jaunts. It had things like this:

But Oh My God, WHY did no one else know what or where this museum was? It was exactly 3 blocks from the Starbucks, and 5 blocks from the accessories shop, and equally close to all those sculptures and the cathedral. I mean honestly. It's like no one gives a crap about the museums and they'd all rather just be sitting out at a cafe having a beer.

Yeah, that sounds good.

Faking A Sick Day, In Aachen

2011-03-03T07:18:00.000-08:00

I have been in-transit for just over one week. Hustling from city to town to hamlet to burg, jumping on and off trains, indulging in the local cuisines, photographing the local splendor and historical wonder. I'm tired.

And today, whilst on an early-morning private guided tour of a bit of Aachen, Germany, it was explained to me - and obvious from the growing crowds, that it was not a normal day. Today is the first day of Carnivale, and they take it seriously here. I had no idea the Germans celebrated Carnivale, but good for them! Aachen is one of five cities (the others being Dusseldorf, Cologne, Munster, and Mainz) where the people go a little crazy.

So, in the midst of my delightful, sophisticated voyage - you know, where I want everyone to be wearing this sort of thing:

I am seeing far more of this:

To be fair, if I had A) been prepared for this, and B) been traveling with friends, I would have been the first to jump in, tutus a'flarin'. As it is, I have left my tutus at home, I'm exhausted, and have decided to accept the craziness, and scary cartoonish mobs, as a sign that it's perfectly okay for me to get Subway take-out, and hole up in my hotel room reading fashion magazines all day. I'll do the touring-around thing tomorrow (cough, cough).

On A Mission

2011-03-02T13:56:00.000-08:00

Remember that one time...when I was in Brussels...and I was shopping...and I was in the dressing room, when the shop was closing...and it was really sad, because I hadn't even seen the upstairs?

Yeah, that bummed me out. So on my banzai route, Ghent - Brussels - Aachen, I noticed that I would be changing trains at the middle one. Brussels. Where that shop was. The shop with the entire second floor of potentially fabulous things that I had not yet seen.

I had just about two hours in between the time my train arrived into Brussels, and the time my next train left Brussels for Aachen. I jumped off the train at Brussels Gare du Midi, rolled my outrageously enormous suitcase to the luggage storage window, checked it in, then took off - practically skipping - to the Metro.

Two hours was all the time I needed to:

1) Take the Metro to Louisa station
2) Walk from Louisa station some 10-odd blocks to Les Enfants d'Edouard
3) Climb the stairs to the second floor and find...

Marni (again - love the Marni)

and awesomely kooky Christian LaCroix Bazaar

There were more clothes on the second floor - not just shoes (the shoe selection was sparse in my size).

I made it back to Gare du Midi with enough time to sit and have a plate of caramel waffles. It's still Belgium, after all.

Ghent. I Went.

2011-03-01T13:41:00.000-08:00

The sun finally came out, and stayed out. Hallelujah! Ghent is best seen by river-boat cruise, on a sunny day.

Don't just sit there gazing at the scenery, get on that train! (A reminder to myself. I have to get from Ghent, to Brussels, to Aachen, Germany today. TIRED.)

I Love You, Bruges

2011-02-28T01:33:00.000-08:00

Everything here is as it should be. Made of chocolate.

Chocolate window displays.

Giant chocolate egg at the Choco-Story museum.

Chocolate lipstick.

And a chocolate President Obama.

I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about that last one. It feels a little bit wrong, and yet also kind of awesome.

Bruges = chocolate = perfect vacation destination.

Bruges - All About the Hotel

2011-02-27T11:04:00.000-08:00

GAH! UNDERSTATED SPLENDOR!

I was given multiple rooms with heavy silk draperies, a marble fauxplace and antique furniture, not to mention a chilled bottle of champagne and box of Belgian chocolates (although here I'm sure they're just "chocolates"). This caused unreasonable swanning from room to room, exclaiming to no one "Welcome to my palatial rooms, won't you sit down?" I had leaped straight out of a Jane Austen novel, and was delusionally anticipating callers for tea.

The bathroom? Gorgeously tiled, and equipped with a large tub. Shhh, it's behind the little wall. You can't see it. It's private.

The canal view from my window. Windows I should say, as there were multiple in my stately rooms.

And after the sun came out, just in time to set.

Resident swans. Also swanning about!

And I must mention that the entire property, from the reception parlor to the hallways and staircases, smelled beautiful, thanks to the hotel's "signature" scent (which can be purchased in home mist or candle form). I love things that smell good.

Martin's Relais Oud Huis Amsterdam. It's in Bruges - don't let the name fool you.

Le Train! Le Train!

2011-02-26T00:54:00.000-08:00

I would imagine that is what Tattoo would have said for some of the visitors, had Mr. Rourke not lived on an island.

Railbookers booked me into a First Class compartment on the Thalys train (bless them), and did you know they serve lunch?

Had I known this, I would not have indulged in the enormous breakfast at the Paris cafe an hour prior. No matter, we're in Belgium now, and I still have room for chocolate.

Where: Frederic Blondeel (Brussels Fish Market - 24 Quai aux Briques)

And I just liked the way this building looked.

I have to admit, Brussels was not my favorite city. While the chocolate people were very nice, everyone else seemed grumpy about something. Possibly the political division of the country, according to a very long New Yorker article my dad made me read before the trip. I hate politics. Let's go shopping.

What: Vintage - and not just the "vintage" from 1996 that all those street-fashionistas claim when describing their outfits. Come on - I'm sure the tag is still in the back of your frock, just fess up. There's nothing wrong with shopping at Express.

Where: Gabriele (27 Rue de Chartreux) - SERIOUS vintage. If I did costumes for films that take place in the '20s - '60s, I would come here. Loads of hats, handbags, an impressive leather trenchcoat collection, and fancy, frilly things. Gabriele is also terribly sweet - go shop at her store.

What: Marni - and it combines my three favorite things in clothing: polka-dots, ruffles and pockets. It was a trifecta of happiness.

Where: Les Enfants d'Eduoard (175 avenue Louise) - gorgeous 2-story consignment shop. I was still in story-1 dressing room, dress over head, at 6:25pm when they started turning the lights off. "Wait! I thought you closed at 7!" Sadly, no. 6:30PM on Saturdays. "But...aren't the shoes upstairs?" I wasn't quite wailing, but you get the idea. Heavy sigh.

Oh well, off to Bruges tomorrow...

Paris I - Just Mon Petit Hotel

2011-02-25T00:42:00.000-08:00

I honestly didn't have much time for anything other than photographing the hotel (Hotel Gramont Opera). It was zip in, zip over to other hotel to pick up travel documents, zip back. And then, on to Brussels...

Suze, Can I Afford It?

2011-02-18T20:11:00.000-08:00

When I don't have an endless stream of disposable income (which is almost always), and I plan to travel, I must force myself to create a budget. GAAAAH, MATH!

I do this not only because it's financially savvy; I also have great hopes of someday impressing Suze Orman. I have to think about hotel costs, transportation costs, day-to-day expenses, VAT taxes, exchange rates and...

sometimes the budget ends up looking like this:

I start with the grand total for the hotels, then add the non-negotiable travel costs (trains, planes & automobiles), and then see where that leaves me. If I'm gasping for breath at the number, that means my daily allowance is going to be smaller. Sad face.

I am a fan of round numbers, so I will choose a big, round number for my trip budget. Say, if I'm going somewhere for one week, and my hotels & transportation cost $2300, I will allow $700 for my daily expenses. That makes the big, round number $3000, which looks nice when you write it down. Then, I divide the daily expenses $700 by the number of days in the week (7, I'm practically a Mathematician), also nice and round, leaving me with $100 per day.

I keep a wee little notebook for the trips - it's tiny, and has a cute little elastic strap to keep it closed - and I write each date of the trip at the top of a page, with the daily allowance, $100, next to it. Throughout each day I will write down everything I spend, and subtract along the way. At the end of the day, if there's anything left-over, I carry it to the next page and next day. With the way I shop, this is absolutely necessary. I have to have strict boundaries. Rather than an actual person slapping my hand, I have that little elastic strap snapping over the wee notebook. BAD spender!

With my fancy budgetary constraints I can decide "Do I want to spend most of this $100 on a Michelin-starred meal?" Or, "If I walk the 10 blocks from the train station to the hotel, rather than taking a cab, that amount can go toward shopping..."

I mean, I love this:

and if I'm traveling with, or meeting up with friends, this is usually part of the cultural extravaganza.

But, if I'm by myself, I'm perfectly content making a meal of cheese and bread. Or Mentos. Nine times out of ten, I will gladly substitute Haute Cuisine for Haute Couture.

I mean, once you eat that meal, it's gone.

Pack My Trunk & Bring Me A Cocktail

2011-02-17T20:25:00.000-08:00

I was really only kind-of joking about the cloche hat & fox-fur stole idea, in preparation for my train trip. I have grown despondently weary of boring functional clothing. Let's make travel theatrical again! I'll start with me.

Elegant rail travel is really all about the hat and the wrap, and while my sister has pointedly informed me that "very few people can pull off hats", I am choosing to ignore her.

Do I want to try Joan Crawford's feathered cap and fur stole?

Minus the cigarette - the smoke clings to the clothes. But it's winter, and I'll need more than just the stole.

What about Gene Tierney's straw hat with leopard-print coat?

Straw hat? What am I, a farmer? And I'm just not a fan of mixing seasons. For me straw = Spring/Summer; leopard coat = Autumn/Winter. The false eyelashes are all-seasonal: Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter and Awards.

Maybe Ava Gardner's large-brim-with-peacock-feather...

Dammit. She's not wearing a coat, and I just don't think that sunburst brooch will emanate enough heat to keep me warm.

Perhaps Greta Garbo's mini-bowler-with feather (I do love me some feathers), and fur-collared coat...

...or Lauren Bacall's French beret with wool coat?

And that is a slightly more glamorous version of the face I will be making if someone is kicking my seat.

Myrna Loy is wearing an exaggerated beret (probably not the proper name), and wool coat with fur collar.

The lace cravat adds an extra dash of sass, texture, and Louis XIV-ness.

However, in the end, I still feel partial to the cloche hat/fur combination, like my favorite girls:

Josephine and Daphne own this look, and make me believe I could own it too. Or possibly just rent it for a day or so.

Then, just when I think I've got my rail travel theatrical elegance all figured out, I see something like this...

...and wonder if it's more about the bag.

Train in Vain

2011-02-16T20:31:00.000-08:00

I'm going a-traveling on a train. That's right, ALL ABOARD! The fabulous people at RailBookers have arranged a stellar itinerary for me, in exchange of a few of my bon mots (see, that French class I took is really paying off).

I will be zipping around between Paris (France), Brussels (Belgium), Bruges (also Belgium), Ghent (still Belgium), and Aachen (not Belgium - Germany).

Before things were finalized, and there was a chance our potential partnership wouldn't work out, I thought "Well, I'm going to be over in The Europe anyhoo, so mebbe I'll just plot out my own train extravaganza!" After all, I love plotting, planning and researching, so why not?

I'll tell you why not. Because there are a fajillion different train stations in most of these European cities, and once I began the mere attempt of plotting, planning and researching, I quickly surrendered to the far more achievable act of whimpering. "I can't do it by myself! I so confuse!"

Thankfully, RailBookers confirmed our destined union, and has lavished me with an itinerary full of train stations, train numbers, departure & arrival times, and (my favorite part) hotels.

As is the case with most of my travels, I have over-romanticized the idea of European train travel, and am bemoaning the dearth, in my sartorial repertoire, of cloche hats, pearl-strands, and fox-fur stoles.

Dress for Men? Dress for Women? Dress for TSA.

2011-02-13T13:52:00.000-08:00

"Do women dress for men, or other women?" When traveling, now, we are really dressing for the TSA. The days of fanciful, deluxe travel, with the layers of furs and endless procession of leather-bound steamer trunks are pretty much over. Heavy sigh. Today's travel ensembles need to be perfunctory, sans the "fun" (so just "per" and "ctory").

Travel now involves standing in endless lines, hauling heavy bags, and trying to fit just one more fashion magazine into your carry-on bag. It also involves some semblance of dressing and undressing in order to clear the TSA security zone.

A good deal of thought has to go into your travel-day ensemble: are these shoes easy to slip on and off?... will I have to remove this sweater - it's not really a jacket...will the under-wire in my bra set off the metal detector?

I suffer through dilemmas as such: I want to wear these flats...

But when I take them off, my bare feet come in contact with the airport floor. No.

I want to wear these boots:

But I am unable to remove them by myself, in under 10 minutes. TSA staff is unlikely to assist. So, no.

I want to wear these shoes.

But I, sadly, do not own those shoes. We have also seen how TSA feels about them. So, again, no.

Solution: I will wear these boots

Success! The little zipper at the ankle allows for ease of removing and re-donning. They are comfortable. And they match everything - including this:

If we were the same size I just KNOW Lady Beckham would want to share clothes with me.

Carry On

2011-02-10T22:48:00.000-08:00

Everyone, I'd like to introduce you to my Chloe Heloise Navy Oversize Tote. Although I bought this when it moved from Net-A-Porter to TheOutnet, for sale purposes, and was marked down to the always exciting price of Half-Off, it is still the most expensive handbag I've ever owned. Was the half-off-yet-still-outrageously-expensive-price worth it? Yes.

I. Love. This. Bag.

I love the color. I love all the zippered pockets. I love the outer slot pockets. I love the way it sits comfortably on my shoulder - either one, right OR left. I love the sticky-crunchy noise it makes when I squeeze it (sometimes to see if it's empty, sometimes just because). I love how it plops down and opens, wide, so I am able to see all the crap I've crammed into it. And I love how it accommodates my laptop, in either the standing-on-its-end position, or the flat-down position. My laptop is ungainly, so this is no small feat.

I also love how she looks when she sort of turns to the side.

This bag has become my go-to carry-on for traveling. It's lightweight, yet sturdy, and the amount of stuff it holds is unbelievable. I don't even think Chloe realized just how much stuff you can put in the Chloe Heloise Oversize Tote. Several months ago, I apparently overstepped my bounds with the stuff-cramming, and Chloe Heloise Oversize Tote rebelled. She rebelled at a most inopportune time and place: the security line at LAX, where one of the straps just gave up and gave out. SNAP!

You can imagine my horror. "CHLOE! MY BABY!" Also "How the eff am I going to carry this thing for the rest of the trip?"

I grumbled and complained about "Stupid luxury designer goods!" and how they were no better than stupid non-luxury, non-designer goods. When I finally stopped bitching , I emailed Chloe.

Chloe not only responded immediately to my whining, but repaired the bag in less than 4 weeks, and has FedEx'd it back to me. It will arrive safely back in my arms, just in time for my upcoming trip to Europe.

File under: Things That Please Me.

Carry on!

Jet Lag

2011-02-09T19:44:00.000-08:00

Always. Always when I'm planning a trip that involves crossing time zones.

Mom: What time do you arrive there?

Me: Oh, the plane lands around 8pm.

Mom: Sooooo, what time is it going to be here, when you arrive there?

No. Just no. Because it doesn't matter what time it's going to be where my mom is. This is how you contract the deadly disease of Jet Lag. You focus too much on what time it is where you used to be, rather than what time it is where you are. I'm using a lot of italics in explaining this, for emphasis.

Jet lag is annoying. You're tired, grumpy, and out of sorts. You are unable to fully appreciate the awesomeness of wherever you've gone on your trip, and I find that to be unacceptable.

My number one, most important recommendation for avoiding (or at least lessening the effects of) jet lag is this: When you board the airplane, get settled into your seat, fasten your seat-belt and then set your watch to whatever the time is at your destination. YES, before the plane even takes off! Set your watch, and then try to behave as if it's that time already. You're on an airplane, and aren't doing your normal, daily routine-y things anyway.

Example: It's 8:30PM as you board your flight in Chicago, for London.

You: Pardon me, Nice Flight Attendant, but what time is it right now in London?

Nice Flight Attendant: Why, it's 3:30AM, and aren't you a savvy traveler for asking!

You: Yes. Yes I am. Thanks very much.

And then you set your watch to 3:30AM, turn off that overhead light and go immediately to sleep - if you can sleep on airplanes, I envy you.

There is probably some stuff I should mention about circadian rhythms and that sort of thing, but I have found that the simple act of telling my watch that it is whatever time it is where I'm going, helps the rest of me assimilate.

If my mom really needs to know what time it is, where, I direct her to TimeandDate.com. She's not the one in danger of contracting the Jet Lag.

I See London

2011-02-08T21:41:00.000-08:00

And when I see London, I like to stay in the following hotels. I recommend all of them.

The Mandeville Hotel. And yes, I managed to ruin the pristine presentation of the photo with my duffel bag and flip flops. Just ignore them.

While I enjoyed the Mandeville, I am on a personal crusade to experience all six London Firmdale properties. I'm halfway there.

The Knightsbridge Hotel - Room 504.

The Soho Hotel.

And my absolute favorite, the Covent Garden Hotel - Room 117.

Isn't it nice to not have me talking so much? Just enjoy the pretty hotel photos. Thaaaaaat's right.

The Nights in Paris I Didn't Enjoy

2011-02-06T18:21:00.001-08:00

Planning a trip, for me, is almost more fun than actually going on the trip. Remember how I always need to find the perfect cushy home base? I do a lot of online research to find the perfect place to rest my weary head, and while I love the ease of the interwebs, sometimes it messes with me.

Case in point: I spent all last week finding the perfect Paris hotel for a couple of nights - YES! Those nights I'll be in Paris for Fashion Week! - and finally settled on the beautiful, well-located Hotel Duquesne Eiffel. 133 Euro a night (around $180) is amazingly inexpensive for a pretty Paris hotel near the Eiffel Tower.

I was so excited! It was rated #29 on Trip Advisor! People raved about the wonderful hotel staff, the cosy, bright lobby, and the well-appointed rooms! Wheeee! I was going to experience all of those things! I mean just look at it!

J'adore!

I have found, with booking European hotels, that it is best to go directly to the hotel's website. No confusing middle-bookers to deal with.

On the Hotel Duquesne Eiffel's site I clicked on "Rates/Booking" which brought me to a very simple, large font invitation to enter my Check-In Date. I entered "Mar 5" (the actual letters for the month of March, not just the "3", which can get confusing with Europe as they reverse the order of the Month and the Date), and under "Nights" I clicked the number "2". Adults per room? "1", and then the large "Check Availability" button.

The pop-up window opened, with clear, pretty photos of the available rooms, stating the type of room and price, then the big, shiny "Book" button. I looked over the choices and clicked "Book" on my choice. Easy, non?

Then another pop-up window popped up, with a dizzying array of boxes, and the standard fill-in fields for my information. I wanted to make sure to lock in that 133 Euro rate, so I filled in my information, reviewed the total cost - uh hunh, 266 Euro, yes, looks good - and then on to the next window to enter the credit card information and confirm.

My confirmation email arrived, from the hotel, and the subject line was this:

Booking Confirmation for Hotel Duquesne Eiffel BerQ5mgo0q88Duqu

Slightly gobbledygooky, but whatever, I was booked!

A few days later I received this:

Bonjour,

As our cancellation policy is concerned,
You made a no show yesterday, so we charged your credit card of 133€.

Thank you for your understanding,

Best regards,
Mélanie

I am not understanding. Yesterday was Feb 5. WHAT??? NO! Did I accidentally book for February??? That's not possible. I mean, it's possible, but I was being really careful when entering my dates... CRAP!

I rushed back to the Hotel Duquesne's website to do a little test. I repeated the booking process, as I had before, entering "Mar 5", then "2 Nights". The same little pop up popped up, and I looked at the available rooms, and the big "BOOK" buttons, scratching my head.

I then noticed that up at the top of the page, in very small script, it said "Arrival date: Sunday, February 13, 2011".

That's not right. I had clearly entered "Mar 5".

Their system is glitchy! GLITCHY I SAY! It wasn't my fault! Hooray! This made me feel:

better about having entered the correct information the first time
annoyed with myself for not having scoured every detail of the page while booking

But why must I troubleshoot a hotel's website while booking my fun vacation? Why? They're not paying me for tech support - not even in the form of a gratis petit dejeunner.

I immediately responded to Melanie, explaining what I had just experienced, and asked that they please not charge me, as it was clearly a hotel website error.

Heavy sigh. It's France. They don't really care.

Hello,

It is really not a pleasure for us to charge the night as a no show,

If we had sold the room to someone else, we would not have charged the night

But as we didn’t got any cancellation or even a call/email from you, kept the room for you the whole night.

The best I can do is to upgrade you for free next time you come

Best regards

Hélène

Oh, Hélène. Sad face. This bums me out. You didn't even mention the website issue.

I do loves me an upgrade, however, now that I've had to spend over $300 for not staying at your hotel, I can no longer afford to actually stay at your hotel, in March. When I'm actually in Paris.

I just have a hard time imagining this is as much of a financial burden for the hotel, as it is for an individual person - me.

Please call the French Geek Squad to fix your website. Toute suite. I, in turn, promise to read all the fine, fine, nearly illegible print, in hopes of uncovering website malfunctions.

MODE A PARIS! VRAIMENT!

2011-02-04T21:50:00.001-08:00

OH LA VACHE, MON PETIT CHOU CHOUS!

I AM TRES DESOLE TO BE YELLING LIKE THIS - IT IS SO NOT FRENCH! I AM BEYOND HYPERVENTILATING, HOWEVER, MY FONT IS TREBUCHET, SO THOSE BALANCE OUT, NON?

I have just discovered that I will coincidentally be in the City of Lights for a few days of Paris Fashion Week, or, as they say in Le France, Mode A Paris. I will allow you a few moments to release all the ZOMFGS! from your collective, chic systems.

As I am a mere fashion peasant - a sartorial civilian, if you will - there is really no chance of my actually getting in to see one of these shows. HOW. EV. ER. I have diligently researched the schedule, and plan to position myself within stalking distance of the shows, for no other reason than to simply appreciate the predictably extravagant and delicious people watching.

PLEASE, GOD, LET ME SEE DAPHNE GUINNESS IN SOMETHING ARCHITECTURALLY IMPOSSIBLE!

Merci.

I've Got Baggage

2011-01-31T21:34:00.000-08:00

Try
Using it
More than a few times
It will disappoint.

That is my brilliantly inspired acrostic for the Tumi luxury brand. I haven't copyrighted it yet, so please feel free to use it.

Just look at them. Standing there, all smug and expensive, like a Rothschild family portrait.

Being a susceptible label whore, I was convinced that Tumi must be the platinum standard of luggage, based on its outrageous price tag. You get what you pay for! Except when you buy Tumi luggage.

Yes, it's pretty. Yes, it's made from that "virtually abrasion-proof FXT ballistic nylon", which makes the luggage sound like a superhero in its own right. And the "Accent Your Alpha" collection practically screams "This will enlarge your...!" However...

The Tumi website crows self-congratulatory accolades:

With a 30-year history of creating superior products for discerning professionals and frequent travelers, Tumi is recognized as the world's leading brand of luxury travel, business and lifestyle accessories. Tumi's success can be traced to its continual focus on its principles of design excellence, functional superiority and technical innovation.

The functional superiority of my Tumi luggage includes: Zipper tabs that fall off when you look at them wrong; a luggage lock with dangerously fraying wires that mercilessly stab me at every attempt to set the combination; an expanding section which stubbornly refuses to remain in the unexpanded position, as if anticipating an enormous Thanksgiving dinner of excess clothing, even when I've miraculously managed to pack sensibly.

At one point I think Tumi offered a lifetime warranty, and would graciously make repairs as needed. According to the Tumi sales clerk, we have sadly passed that point, and rather than go through the hassle of paying to ship the bag to an "authorized" repair location, waiting for the bag to be repaired, and then paying whatever charges for said repairs, I simply decided to borrow my mom's luggage for my most recent trip.

Totally
Rad
Alternative
Very
Excited about this
Love, love, love it
Please
Replace my Tumi with TravelPro
O Faithful Travel Faries

Plus, George Clooney's character in "Up In The Air" uses TravelPro. We're still working on that whole susceptibility issue.

Where I've Been map app - File Under "Where Is The File?"

2011-01-25T09:53:00.000-08:00

Is there a big colorful map above this right now? It didn't show up when I previewed this post. Curses!

Facebook has been chock-full of games and apps, and the one app I became obsessed with was "Where I've Been", which gave you a map of the world, then allowed you to click on various countries to indicate that you had either a) been there (blue), b) lived there (red), or c) wanted to go there (green). SWOON! I literally spent hours on that app; clicking and mousing around, until the world was a tri-colored smattering of my travel past. The "Where I've Been" map informed me I had been to 20% of the world, which didn't sound like enough. More, more, more!

Facebook seems bound and determined to change everything, every other week: things that don't work, things that do work, whatever. Facebook needs several doses of Ritalin, and possibly a spanking - JUST SETTLE DOWN ALREADY! One of the changes they made appears to be the elimination of my big, fun Where I've Been map, leaving me with a small, unsatisfying Where I've Been link, which takes me to a fairly useless website with someone else's travel photos. WHERE IS MY MAP???

I no longer have immediate access to my percentage of world left to travel! I know it's technically 80%, but I hate doing my own math! And 80% sounds like too much! Stupid Russia and Africa, with their vast land mass and discouraging political unrest.

Oh well, here's a pretty map to look at:

I've been to some of the beige countries, and some of the green countries, and some of the...

How-Diddly-Do-diddly Neighbor!

2011-01-03T19:36:00.000-08:00

Who likes to chat and make friends with seatmates on airplanes? You? Nope? Well, how about you? Nope?

Me neither.

It may be that a bit o' the Pacific Northwest has crept into my psyche (I've lived there for 13 years).

(Ed note: Ned Flanders creator, Matt Groening, is from Pacific Northwest)

Pacific Northwesterners do not like chit-chatting with strangers. They also do not like smiling, or saying "Hello!" to strangers. I learned this the hard way after moving to Seattle from the smiling, "Hello!"-saying Midwest. My innocent smiling and "Hello!"s were answered with narrowed eyes and an increased shuffling pace of the passers-by. One native explained "Well, it's like we're wondering what you want from us."

What I want from you? You mean, like chocolate? Or discounted high-end footwear?

I didn't understand this, but have since tried to accept that "Hello!" is only okay for friends and acquaintances, and passive-aggressiveness is for everyone.

Mutter, mutter, barely audible sneering and complaining.

When leaving the Pacific Northwest by air (for smilier, more "Hello!"-saying destinations) I like to board the aircraft, swing carry-on bag into overhead compartment, shove purse underneath seat in front of me, plop into seat, and then mentally eliminate all other passengers. Not in an unfriendly, or passive-aggressive way, I just enjoy the Me Time on the plane. Just me and the Flight Crew! HELLO FLIGHT CREW!

Diet Coke with lemon, please! (or tomato juice if I want to brag about having eaten my vegetables that day)

On a recent flight, I followed my usual protocol and settled into my aisle seat, closing my eyes. Window Seat and Middle Seat were both women, around my age, who hadn't known each other pre-flight. They became instant friends and were chatting amicably about a bunch of stuff, and I thought "Oh that's nice" while easing into a nap.

As I kind of napped, I also kind of eavesdropped, and ended up being interested in what I was hearing. Window Seat was a Korean-American who had just returned from spending three months in Seoul, South Korea. Hey! I lived there for a year! I wanted to share. I dragged myself out of my self-imposed airplane solitary confinement and said "I'm sorry, I was eavesdropping..." blah blah, shared experiences, and FUN! I really liked these girls! Both were from L.A. so I felt comfortable explaining the annoyances of Pacific Northwest "communication" practices.

When the plane landed and the "fasten seatbelt" sign dinged off, everyone popped up and started the kerfuffle of gathering their crap. I heard Window Seat say "Ohmygosh, I'm sorry! I didn't think we were talking that loud." I looked over at her with eyebrows raised, and she sort of motioned toward the row in front of us, shrugging her shoulders.

When we were released into the terminal, and could move about freely, I said "What was that all about?" Window Seat explained that Random Guy had whined to Random Girl "MAN, they talked the ENTIRE TIME", to which Random Girl answered "Yeah, I know", and then Random Guy said "I mean they just didn't shut UP!" and this was the point where Window Seat, realizing they were talking about us, offered her apology, which was apparently ignored by both Guy and Girl.

Yep. Pacific Northwest passive-aggressiveness.

The airplane is not the library-diddly. People are allowed to speak to one another-diddly-oodly. We weren't drunk or loud or screaming babies-bibbly-boobly! We weren't kicking their seats or grabbing their hair while using their headrests as leveraging devices-dum-diddly-dangily! They were grumpy about basically nothing-noodly! And yet found it necessary to complain just loudly enough for one of us to hear that they were unhappy-nappily-ding-dang-noodly-doodly! And then to completely ignore the apology.

I desperately wished to encounter Random Guy and Random Girl somewhere in the terminal, so I could smile widely at them and yell "HELLO!", so that they would then wonder "What do you want from us?" and I could tell them "I want you to RELAX-iddly-ax-iddly!"

I still can't decide whether or not I'd talk to Ned Flanders on a flight.

Calgon Wasn't Enough

2010-12-18T13:28:00.000-08:00

Winter is oftentimes a challenge. Winter in the Pacific Northwest is always a challenge. Faced with the upcoming Portland forecast of "rain", "showers", "light rain", and "heavy rain", I decided to get out of town in order to preserve my waning sanity. Because outside it was waining heaviwy.

I selected the Red Mountain Resort & Spa because not only was it in dry, sunny Southwestern Utah, but it also offered fitness classes, healthy food, and you know - spa stuff. I had adopted the Holiday Cookie Diet, which was doing no one any favors, and my pants were beginning to complain loudly underneath the muffin top.

(NBC Universal is not being very share-y, and will not allow me to post Jenna's "Muffin Top" video. It's #1 in Israel and Belgium. This image was the closest I could find, and "whole gain" is supposed to say "whole grain". Reference fail.)

Portland-L.A.-Las Vegas and then a 2 hour rental-car drive to Ivins (Utah). The Red Mountain Spa was enjoying one of their down-weeks, and I was one of only ten guests at a resort offering "82 beautifully designed rooms and 24 Villa Suites". Fantastic! (they are typically crazy-busy Thanksgiving week, Christmas through New Years, and happy-busy between March and October).

For four days I took fitness classes, I enjoyed healthy, delicious meals, I spent time in the steam room, and I even did a Shaman Life Path Reading (which, frankly, didn't really tell me anything new about my life path, but it was still an interesting experience) - all whilst being surrounded by cacti, sagebrush, lava fields, and the resort's namesake Red Mountains (probably not their official title).

I returned saner, happier and the muffin top is now more of a pancake, which will (I vow) then shrink to a tortilla, and then dissolve into nothing that can be rolled into a snack. I just needed the kick-start, and the brief respite from the weather.

WELCOME WINTER! I'm ready for you now.

The Granville Island Serengeti

2010-11-02T16:11:00.001-07:00

My friend Christine and I were up in Vancouver for a girls' weekend, and were wining it up on Granville Island on a sunny Sunday afternoon. We had been engrossed in conversation for three glasses of wine when Christine got up to use the restroom. An attractive couple sitting next to us immediately turned to me and asked me about our conversation. They were smart and funny and chatty and when Christine came back to the table, she was holding her middle finger up at me because she knew we had been discussing her. Then she sat down and promptly joined the discussion.

We talked mainly about relationships and break-ups, and personality types and how people basically fell into four distinct categories: aggressive-aggressive, aggressive-passive, passive-aggressive, and passive-passive. We'll call the couple Frank and Emily. Frank was probably in his mid-to-late 40s, and Emily told us she was 38. In the personality type classification, they were both admitted aggressive-aggressives.

Frank had asked me what I thought I was, and I said "Oh definitely aggressive-aggressive". He then said "What do you think your friend is?" and I answered "Um...probably aggressive-passive". He asked "What do you think she will say she is?" and I said "I don't know...but probably aggressive-passive".

Christine said "I think I'm probably aggressive-passive". So we then continued to discuss relationships, and the personality types of past boyfriends, etc. Frank and Emily had empty shot glasses sitting on their table, and we were like "Oh my God you guys are doing shots???" It was 4pm on a Sunday. They smiled and said "Yeah!" and then Frank offered to buy us tequila shots. Christine is Irish and was up for it, but after three glasses of wine, I knew a tequila shot would push me close to the barfing point, and I declined. Frank said to the waitress "Okay, we'll have THREE tequila shots, because BABY doesn't want one". I'm 40, and totally fine with someone calling me "Baby" even if it is an attempt to peer-pressure me into a tequila shot. I have a strong aversion to barfing, so I stayed firm with my initial anti-shot stance.

Christine went to the bathroom again, and Emily said "So you guys are going for sushi for dinner?" and I said "Yeah! You should come with!" because they were our new friends and we were all having so much fun! Emily grinned and said "Oh, we have our OWN sushi...at HOME..." and I laughed, because I didn't really know what she was talking about - I mean, maybe they had sushi in the fridge, who knows? And Emily continued and said "And our sushi is RAW" and she laughed wickedly, and I laughed along thinking "OH, ha ha, innuendo - they're naughty!"

When Christine came back to the table, she asked Frank what he thought of men who cheated, and Frank said "Well, do you mean cheating behind her back, or in front of her? Because behind her back is a different story." Blah blah - more conversation. Frank offered to buy me a glass of wine, and I just said "You can pay for this one" pointing to my empty third glass. My alcohol tank was on "Full".

At some point Frank said "Why don't you two come to our house for a drink?" which I didn't want to do, because I was hungry, and they were our nice new friends, and we were having so much fun! but I didn't need any more drinks. It was Sunday for crying out loud.

We all left the bar at the same time, and I think Frank and Emily had decided to come for sushi with us, but it wasn't clear. We were waiting for a cab, when the waitress ran out to us and said "You forgot to pay your bill!" to Christine, so Christine stumbled back inside the bar, and I waited outside with Frank and Emily. I said to them "You know, you guys don't really HAVE to come with us for sushi if you don't really want to." thinking that Christine might have just badgered them into coming. Frank answered "We know - we don't do anything we don't want to do - we're aggressive-aggressive!" and Emily added "Yeah, we're up for anything. Especially when sex is involved."

Insert exaggerated record scratch here. WHAT???

I had had three glasses of wine on a fairly empty stomach, and was not sober, so I thought I had maybe heard her incorrectly...

It was then that Christine came back outside and was all cheery and "Okay! Let's get a cab and go for sushi!" and she climbed into the front seat of the cab, leaving me alone in the back seat with our new "friends" Frank and Emily, who kept kissing each other as I craned my neck to look away from them and out the window.

OH MY GOD!

Frank and Emily had directed the cab to their neighborhood, and pointed out their house, which was conveniently located exactly one block from their recommended sushi place. In the car they said "We're going to go home first, but we'll meet you at the sushi place in an hour". So Christine and I got out of the cab and walked into the sushi place. We sat down in a booth and I hissed across the table "THEY WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH US!!!" Christine said "What? No." and made a face like I didn't know what I was talking about. "You don't know what you're talking about!" she said.

I was exasperated, as I had been piecing together the afternoon conversations, and then the whole "especially when sex is involved" comment. Christine said "She didn't say THAT." and I was like "YES SHE DID OH MY GOD WHEN YOU WERE INSIDE PAYING THE BILL!!!!"

She still didn't believe me throughout dinner, which we ate very quickly, with me darting glances toward the window, and still didn't believe me in the cab back to our hotel. I had to replay EVERY clue and innuendo for her several times "Remember how Emily was like 'Oh, and you're both beautiful...and you both have really beautiful hands...'???" before she was like "Oh my God, they wanted to have SEX with us!!!"

It was a total predator/prey situation and we were the little unsuspecting Impalas, innocently grazing and drinking our wine out on the Serengeti, and Frank and Emily were the calculating Leopards, offering to buy the Impalas shots of tequila to lure them into their lair of raw sushi!

I'll bet they had gone home first to set up the hidden video camera! OH MY GOD!!!

So, I guess my lesson here is...I don't KNOW! People keep surprising me!

Now, If I Were An Accountant...

2010-10-22T19:11:00.000-07:00

Given that I'm all "TravelGretta" and such, wouldn't you think it would behoove my parents to glean helpful travel tips from me? Me, their own offspring? Me, their delightful progeny? Me, the fruit of their...gross, forget that last one.

As a "Thank You" for taking care of my kitty-cat, and allowing me to usurp their closet space with my many, many, many pairs of shoes, while I lived overseas, and for being all around awesome parents, I booked The Mom and The Dad First/Business Class tickets to Paris and London.

I AM JUST NICE LIKE THAT!

They haven't been on a big, Trans-Atlantic trip since their honeymoon, back in the 1600s, so this was kind of a big deal for them and they wanted to make sure to plan everything just so.

The Mom and The Dad are fully aware of this blog - TravelGretta - and they know me pretty well; me, their daughter,TravelGretta (although no, that is not my given name, you're right). They are familiar with the voluminous trips, jaunts, and excursions I have taken over the years, and yet, when it came time to plan the details of their own trip, do you think they asked me for assistance? Do you?

Or do you think they checked out a bunch of guide books from the library, spent hours on Google, attended a Saturday morning, AAA "packing seminar" and purchased a book entitled "Pack It Up: The Essential Guide to Organized Travel"?

It's okay. I'll get over it. Plus, I just bought another pair of shoes for them to store in their closet.

Unpack it

2010-10-21T17:36:00.000-07:00

I enjoy packing. Not everyone does. However, not everyone has the awesome Daily Outfit Planner, which practically does the packing for you. If I were more web-savvy, I would post a screen shot of said planner right here:

Am not web-savvy. Many apologies.

It's the unpacking that makes me insane. First, that stupid TSA flier falls out, and reminds you that random people have been sifting through your stuff, and not putting it back the way you originally packed it.

Secondly, everything is dirty, except that one cocktail dress you keep bringing with you, and yet never end up wearing. Why don't people play dress-up anymore?

So you're left staring at the messy, dirty contents of your fun vacation. Where does the stuff go?

Mostly in the hamper. That is the one good part of unpacking: you can just throw the stuff right into the hamper. But then you have to put all the other crap back.

You have to hang the cocktail dress back in the closet, wondering if you are ever going to get to wear it while it's still in style.

You have to find a place for the maps, ticket stubs, postcards and other random vacation accoutrement that should be thrown out, as you are not a scrapbooker, but you can't bear to part with the memorabilia so soon.

You have to unwrap the carefully plastic-wrapped toiletries, and schlep them back to the bathroom or the top of the dresser. During said schlep, you are reminded that your fun vacation is over. You are back to the hum-drum of using the toiletries in your own boring house, rather than at the beach-front villa, or chic Parisian apartment.

Frowny face for unpacking! But welcome home anyway;)

Oh La La La

2010-09-08T12:18:00.000-07:00

Je ne peux parle pas francais. But I tried! I had originally planned to just go to the South of France for two and a half weeks, just to toodle around and see what there was to see. Then I thought "Why not do a little language course while I'm there..." just to help me manage a bit better. It's always better to know a few words of the local language when you travel.

I did a wee bit of research on the school and decided on this one:

The housing options were myriad and, while I wanted to learn some French, I would still be en vacances and therefore chose to stay in a hotel (rather than a homestay or shared apartment). There was also a rooftop pool with this view:

I'm all about immersion.

Get it? See what I did there? Immersion - like language immersion, and immersion - like when you immerse yourself in the swimming pool? Oh la vache!

Everything is different in French, including their exclamations of surprise/admiration "Oh la vache", or horror "Zut alors!", or something that could either be "tsk tsk" or "ohhhhhhhhh my goodness", which is "Oh la la la".

I would attend French lessons every morning from 8:45-12:00, then grab a baguette (usually avec chevre et jambon), then go to the rooftop pool for an hour or so. One afternoon I was climbing down into the pool via the pool's ladder, when I noticed some random guy opposite me, on a deck chair, was holding out his iPhone at an angle that indicated I was being photographed.

OH LA VACHE! ZUT ALORS! OH LA LA LA!

I was like "I think that guy just took a picture of me!" and proceeded to be silently offended and outraged for the next few hours. Silently offended and outraged because I wasn't actually 100% certain he had taken a photo, otherwise I probably would have started yelling (in English). However, judging from the way he had held the iPhone out as I was climbing into the pool, and then pulled the iPhone back in under the umbrella to view the contents was just too suspicious. So silently offended and outraged I was.

Until I reminded myself that I had just turned 40 in July.

Yeahhhh, so maybe having some stranger take a picture of me, in a bikini at age 40, should be something a little closer to flattering than offending... As "Oh la la la" can be either negative or positive, I will stick with that as my official reaction.

The Mystery of "R"

2010-09-06T02:22:00.000-07:00

I wanted to drive from Nice up to the towns of Vence and St. Paul de Vence for a weekend, so I rented a Fiat Panda. Panda - such a cute, cuddly, harmless animal! The car was no different. Tiny, wee, compact, petit!

J'aime le Panda!

After filling out the paperwork at the Hertz counter (which, in French, I pronounced "Ertz"), I was given the key to my Panda, and directed to a nearby parking garage to pick up the car. There it was, in stall #134, my little Panda. He was black, he was sassy, and he was facing forward as if to say "I'm ready to go!", or "Allons-y!". The Panda, as nearly all other European rental cars, had a manual transmission so I stepped on the clutch, shifted easily into "1", pulled out of the parking spot, then up and out of the garage into the brilliant sunshine of a Cote d'Azur afternoon - carefree and joyous as could be.

Driving in the South of France is only carefree and joyous if you know where you are going. The signs are confusing, and the roundabouts ubiquitous. The Ertz counter had not had any GPS systems available, so I asked for a map. The woman happily handed me a black and white photocopied page of something that did resemble a map, however it was a map without road names or numbers. The routes all jumbled together like a plate of plain, cold spaghetti. I hate plain, cold spaghetti. The Ertz counter woman had also said "It is very easy! Just follow ze Bord du Mer to Cagnes sur Mer - zere will be signs to St.Paul/Vence!"

I followed ze Bord du Mer (the road that runs alongside the sea) to Cagnes sur Mer, and looked for ze signs to Vence. Before I knew it, I was in the next town, still not seeing any signs for Vence, so I turned around to go back to Cagnes sur Mer. Coming from the opposite direction, perhaps there would be signs to Vence? I passed through Cagnes sur Mer again, and was now on my way back to Nice. URF! I turned around again, to go back through Cagnes sur Mer, trying to drive slowly enough to read the signs carefully, yet not so slow that the other drivers would get annoyed and honk their horns at me. None of ze signs said "St. Paul" or "Vence". Exasperated, I followed the next roundabout and exited toward a town that I knew was North-ish, Grasse. It wasn't Vence, but it was in the same general direction, and there would have to be signs along the way...

There were not. I was driving up a long, winding road through beautiful wooded pine forests, but all I could think of was how lost I was. I would distractedly glance at the scenery thinking "I should be enjoying this - where the hell is Vence???". I finally reached a town called Roquefort les Pins, and decided to stop at a roadside restaurant and ask for directions. I pulled into the small, gravel parking lot, then walked across the road to the restaurant. I entered the squat stone building, and approached the bar where a woman was sitting, and said "Je suis perdu" (I am lost). I was quite pleased that I was able to say that correctly, and the fact that the woman responded in French was confirmation that she had understood me. Hooray! I was able to understand her response enough to know to go south on the road until I reached a roundabout, and to take the second exit toward Vence. Okay. Whew. I felt better.

I walked back to the Panda, climbed in and attempted to put the car in reverse. As the transmission whirred, I realized I was in "4", rather than "R", so I shifted out and tried again. Same whirring sound. I stared at the gearshift, which very clearly indicated where "R" was, and I was pushing the clutch into the floor, and shoving the gearshift with all my might. Nope. The Panda did not reverse. "Come ON Panda!" I did not want to have to go back into the restaurant to ask someone to help me put the Panda in reverse. I was already embarrassed enough about being lost in such a tiny, seemingly easily-navigable region.

I found the manual in the glove compartment, but only halfheartedly flipped through it. The manual wasn't going to have a page on how to shift the gears. Oh the things that are assumed to be known by everyone. The makers of the Panda probably thought that putting a blurb in about how to put the Panda into "R" would be akin to explaining how to put on the seat-belt. Only idiots would not know how to get into "R". I knew there was SOME sort of button or switch or something that would enable "R", I just couldn't find it. Stupid tricky Panda! They should have called it The Ferret - those things are sneaky. The Fiat Ferret. Also sneaky were those people at Ertz! They probably have the rental cars parked facing out of the parking spots intentionally, so that poor unsuspecting non-Europeans don't realize that they can't put the car in "R" until they are well away from the Ertz office. Zut alors!

How was I supposed to get back on the road if I couldn't use "R" to get myself out of the parking lot? GAH! I was exhausted and the despair was beginning to creep over me, when I remembered how small the Panda was - how wee! how compact! how petit! So, I left the gear in neutral and walked around to the front of the car and braced myself for some big pushing. Yes, I physically pushed the Panda backwards until there was enough room for me to turn the wheels and pull the car forward out of the parking lot.

I was even more proud of this than of busting out with "Je suis perdu". You can't beat me, Panda! Now, if I could just manage to get through the rest of the weekend without needing to put the Panda in "R"... could I do that? I probably could if I were very, very careful...

The roundabout was marked, just as the woman in the restaurant had said it would be, with a sign that said "Vence". Bless her. And curse that woman in the Ertz office! "Easy" and "signs to Vence". Pfft. I drove the rest of the way to Vence, actually enjoying the beautiful woodsy hills, and the confidence that I knew where I was going.

My hotel in Vence was part of an old fortress, and the "road" leading to it was more of a very narrow driveway. There was a parking spot nearby, but it would have required parallel parking, which would have required "R". Hmph. Stupid "R". I kept driving until I was able to pull in, head-first, into a temporary street spot, about four blocks away.

My savior was the proprietress of l'Auberge des Seigneurs, Sandrine. I explained to her that I was unable to get the Panda into "R", and asked if she could possibly help me. She was so sweet, and walked the four blocks with me to the car, where she climbed in the passenger side and showed me a disc located just beneath the gearshift. To get into "R" you had to push down on the disc, then shift. It was just that simple. I laughed and shook my head, then drove Sandrine back to the hotel. I thanked her profusely before driving off to find a permanent parking spot for the evening.

That's right. I pulled into the spot head-first. There was no fear. I had discovered the mystery of "R".

Oh Gretta Where Art Thou?

2010-09-03T05:49:00.000-07:00

Bonjour! I have spent the past two and a half weeks in the South of France. It looked like this.

There will be more stories. Please stay tuned.

Flyin' N Readin'

2010-07-15T02:46:00.000-07:00

One of the items on my Packing List is "reading material". Lately, my reading material has consisted entirely of fashion magazines. No judging. I've found that I have had a shorter attention span during recent trips, and prefer to read magazines or just watch "30 Rock" episodes on my iPod in between naps. I do enjoy books. It's just sometimes a challenge to find one that is airplane-appropriate.

On one flight I had just started David Sedaris' "Me Talk Pretty One Day". I had somehow ended up with a window seat (my self-diagnosed claustrophobia usually demands the aisle seat), and was tucked up next to the window reading about Mr. Sedaris' adventures in speech therapy. Airplanes are a lot like libraries, where you sort of feel like you should "Shhhh-ussshhie!" and I was trying so hard not to laugh out loud. But you know, when you're trying to suppress giggles, or less-cute guffaws, it just makes it worse. I was literally hugging the wall of the airplane, with my face turned away from my appropriately-quiet seatmates, violently shaking, with tears streaming down my face. Funny reading does make the flight go by more quickly, though. What else passes the time quickly? Smut! Jackie Collins, Danielle Steele, Judith Krantz - all good smut. Although it takes a brave individual to read those books out in the open, where anyone can judge you, or peer over your shoulder at an embarrassing sentence involving things that are "engorged" or "heaving".

I think that the airplane might just be the ideal place to try to get through such arduous works as "One Hundred Years of Solitude" or "Dr. Zhivago". If you've read either of these in their entirety, my hat is off to you (and I'm probably bowing). I have never had more difficulty sorting out character names. Lordy, the NAMES! I tried and tried and TRIED to keep characters straight, with the myriad José Arcadio Buendías, and the Pavel Pasha Kologrigovstanislovskivichs. It was exhausting. I even tried to dumb them down, for my own benefit, and said "I'm going to call him 'Joe', and her 'Sally'." To no avail. However, the whole "I'm trapped on an airplane" situation might be just what you need to power through those crazy names and finally conquer those books.

My opinions on airplane-reading:

Good:

All David Sedaris - but be prepared. There may be spit-takes, there may be uncontrollable shaking, there may even be a little pee if you're not careful (but I was).

"I Am America And So Can You" by Stephen Colbert - particularly for international flights, because that's just funny.

Horror/thrillers - because you can always clutch your seatmate for support. Much less scary than reading it alone in your room.

Ed. note: The most terrifying book I've ever read was "The Amityville Horror". I could only read it in broad daylight, at the office, where I was surrounded by chirpy coworkers.

Bad:

Playboy - Seriously. I actually had to sit next to some guy who brought Playboy onto the flight. I moved as soon as we had reached cruising altitude (insert obvious joke about his impending cruising altitude, ha ha ha. Gross.)

"War & Peace" - come on.

Any variation of "Build your own bomb" - obvious reasons.

"Growing Up in Bhutan" - the world's largest book, with 100 pages at five by seven feet. It would require its own seat, and probably in Business Class.

Just plain pretentious:

See "War & Peace"

Anything by Proust - sorry Dad

"Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone" - Latin edition - yes, it has been translated into Latin.

If you forget to bring your own reading material, take the time to enjoy the in-flight magazine. It's not offensive, it's not pretentious, and you will almost always be able to pronounce the names and keep the characters straight. Plus, there's a crossword puzzle!

Packing and Posing

2010-07-14T12:04:00.001-07:00

Some people hate packing for a trip. I kind of love it. It involves organization. There are steps. And lists.

I have a Word document, very cleverly entitled "Packing List", with all the stuff I usually have to pack for every trip, regardless of destination: toiletries, iPod, hairbrush, blah blah - it's that blah blah that gets really heavy. And then I have an Excel document that is very embarrassingly titled "Daily Outfit Planner". (No you don't!) Yes, I do.

I used to haphazardly go through my closet and think "Yeah, I like that. I'll wear that" and then pack a whole mess of things I just really liked. However, with the luggage allowance shrinkage, I have to be far more meticulous in my planning. I literally have to say "On Day 1 I'm going to wear such and such dress with such and such shoes, and carry such and such bag."

The 'such and such' brand is highly coveted in all the fashion capitals.

This kind of anal-retentive forethought might seem ridiculous to some (many), but it actually makes the trip itself much easier. Once in the hotel, with all the delirium of the vacation swirling around you, the last thing you want to have to do is put an outfit together. You're looking at the purple sweater and the cranberry velvet pants and the olive green suede boots, all of which you love individually, but an outfit they do not make.

The Daily Outfit Planner has basic clothing categories (tops, bottoms, outerwear) and also includes undergarments and hairstyles - it's that detailed (um...because I modified it to be that detailed, but that's neither here nor there).

When I was nine or ten years old, I received the Darci doll for Christmas. Darci was Barbie-sized (albeit with slightly more realistic proportions), and came with a posing stand, and multiple outfits. Mine was brunette. That same year, I also received a Kodak instant camera. If you guessed "photo shoot" for what came next, you'd be right. I carefully dressed Darci in each of her very sassy, very 70s, outfits, posed her on the posing stand and snapped away. (I also did this with my sister on one of our vacations to New York to visit relatives, but she didn't come with a posing stand.)

I was obsessed with Darci and her outfits. She had around four different ensembles, and I just remember thinking "she should have more!" I am now similarly obsessed with my own ensembles. The Daily Outfit Planner helps tame the obsession a bit, and forces me to focus. I try to stick with a base neutral color (black, brown, gray) and build around that.

Once I have completed the Daily Outfit Planner chart I can just grab those things out of the closet, roll them up and tuck them into the suitcase. Things pack better when you roll them - fewer wrinkles and you can fit more into the bag.

Helpful hints: pack small, smooshy items inside shoes and boots; wrap plastic baggies around anything that might leak; and if you happen to have purchased fancy shoes on your trip, and are determined to bring the box home with you (because the box is the fancy shoes' home!), pack other items inside the box - there's always room after you remove all that tissue paper.

The more I think about all of this, the more I kind of want a posing stand. It will need to be collapsible...

Friends in Awesome Places

2010-07-09T01:15:00.000-07:00

The absolute best excuse for traveling is having to visit a friend in a far-flung locale.

When one of my absolute favorite people, Josh, was living on Koh Tao, Thailand, working at a dive shop, I decided I probably had to take an open-water dive course.

Josh got me the "Friends & Family" discount, and a thatched bungalow a stone's throw from the ocean.

Josh later moved to Sydney, Australia, and what do you know? That was the one continent I hadn't yet visited. I had to go! Josh gave me the key to his apartment in Potts Point for a week and we spent time lunching in Sydney Harbor, exploring the Sydney Zoo, and celebrating Valentine's Day with too many mojitos and cupcakes. He also set me loose to explore the Great Ocean Road, and the Great Barrier Reef.

En route to Australia, I had to fly through San Francisco. I was faced with a 10-hour window of free time, so I rented a car and enjoyed breakfast with Sarah in Sausalito, lunch with Noreen up in Berkeley, and dinner back in the city with Ashleigh.

My friend Sally has a friend, Steve, who moved to Amsterdam, and yes, she had to visit him and I had to go with her.

You really do have to visit your friends in the Awesome Places. If your best friend from college moved to Germany and you haven't been to visit her? Go! Your most hilarious co-worker was transferred to Hong Kong, and wants to show you around Stanley Market? Go! You will never want to be the one uttering the sentence "Oh, I should have visited Julie when she had that enormous penthouse apartment in Paris..."

And, if one of said friends happens to be getting married in, and subsequently moving to, an Awesome Place, you pull your suitcase out of the closet and say "When do I have to be there?"

Kim (the blushing bride) is truly my favorite thing about flying through London. If she has to live there, I have to visit.

Now, the rest of you, get to work on relocating to the Maldives or Seychelles...or Majorca, Menorca, Capri, Sardinia...and I don't want to hear you whining "Do we have to?"

Never Say Never. I'm Not Kidding.

2010-07-08T05:21:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I allow myself to be sucked into things that I know will make me fussy. Jezebel had a post about an anti-bucket list, that was linked to this list (which was actually funny) and the staff writers all listed things they solemnly pledged to "never" do. Then there were the comments, where Everyone Else listed things THEY will "never" do. The one sensible comment I found in that trail was written by someone with the username LoveNoelIG:

I've learned precious few truths in life, saying "I'll never...." is a guarantee that thing will present itself in a form you never envisioned. Life is weird, circumstances change, flexibility is required, hopefully we grow and evolve...

I hope I never pretend to know what life will throw at me.

PREACH! Here are a few things many of the commentors said they'd never do , which were also things I used to swear I'd "never" do:

Sky dive - This is not scary. Scary part is the rickety plane ride up to the appropriate altitude. I wanted out of that rickety plane. Do it.

Bungy jump - Okay, this one actually was pretty scary, but still. Do it.

Like country music - Again, another one I thought I would forever vehemently eschew. Love it.

Go to Las Vegas - Swore I wouldn't. Did. Loved it.

Some people listed items that are really nothing to be afraid of.

Snorkeling - Really? That is the easy one, that doesn't require any scary, iron equipment. Do it.

Skiing - This is fun. Do it. But if you try it and it's too hard, move to snowboarding. Or sledding. Or sitting next to the fireplace with hot chocolate.

Visit Australia - What? That's just crazy talk. Did you not read "Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day"? That was all he wanted to do!

Moving to a foreign country without knowing anyone - Come on. You'd still have Facebook.

Then, there were a few that just made me laugh really hard:

Live in a city that doesn't have Ethiopian restaurants

Have a pet octopus (they require "serious upkeep")

And, finally, there was one I absolutely agreed with:

Wear Crocs

Although I didn't rule that one out before trying them on. I couldn't get over how hideous they were, but figured they must be radically comfortable if so many people were buying them. SO I TRIED THEM!

(Ed. note: Crocs are no more comfortable than Reef flip flops, which are infinitely more attractive. There is no logical reason to wear Crocs. They are an affront to footwear.)

There is something to be said about LIVING life, rather than just finding things about it to avoid. Those things of which you are most terrified are precisely the things you should do in order to show yourself "See? You CAN do that." Or, alternately, "Well, okay, you can't do that, but isn't it better to know for sure?"

I will never make a list of Things I Will Never Do...but I will make a list of Things I Tried At Which I Was Unsuccessful:

Playing basketball

Speaking Korean

Making cake frosting - Mom: Ohhhhh yeah, I usually double the sugar amount...I should have told you that.

Maintaining a serious attitude while working at a tanning spa - I was subsequently fired for joking around about making personal phone calls on the spa's phone.

That is the kind of list that is always acceptable. "Tried it, but no cigar."

Stop letting your fears and insecurities, and that Anti-Bucket List post, keep you from at least trying new things.

DO IT.

Home Away From Home

2010-07-07T02:37:00.000-07:00

I am a Cancer,

"Emotion runs strong for this sign, and when it comes to family and home, nothing is more important."

and

"These souls need a retreat, some place where they can step out of the spotlight and recharge their batteries. They are finicky and tend to be claustrophobic..."

SEE! That astrology website has confirmed my self-diagnosed claustrophobia. I feel so much better!

Since I love to travel so much, "home" is often a hotel. I LOVE hotels, and the older I get, the fancier they have to be. Well, not fancier necessarily, but clean, chic, well-located, and with bathrobes and preferably a sexy concierge. I have friends who, while traveling, couldn't care less about the hotel, and would rather save the money or spend it on a meal or shopping or whatever. I, on the other hand, HAVE to have a nice, cushy home base.

Finding cushy home base involves a bit of work.

1. TripAdvisor - I start here. Usually the #1 hotel is an outrageously expensive property whose cost I cannot justify, even if I try really hard.* So I continue scrolling down until I get to one that I can realistically afford.

2. I go to travel booking sites: Booking, Expedia, Travelocity, Splendia, etc. and look up several of the TripAdvisor-rated properties, for a good compare/contrast.

3. I make a list of the selling-points for my top choices: bathrobes? breakfast included? swimming pool? rooftop swimming pool? sexy concierge? (they really should list this under "amenities")

4. I then narrow down my choices to the Top 3 or so, and visit the actual hotels' websites.

5. I commit to a hotel, and make the reservation.

6. I go back to TripAdvisor and read all the positive reviews for my chosen hotel - I skip the negative ones.

This process can take hours, but it's hours of non-stop fun for me. I have no idea why. I also really enjoy balancing my checkbook.

*For my birthday this year, I'm splurging (don't tell Suze Orman, she'll just yell at me), and staying one night at the Covent Garden Hotel in London.

My justification is "Turning 40".

Who Wants An Upgrade?

2010-07-05T10:10:00.000-07:00

I hate coach. The seats are too tiny and too close together, you have to pay for snacks, and the flight attendants are cranky. During boarding, the airlines seat the First and Business Class passengers first, so that when les miserables in Economy class board, we are forced to slump past the comfortably lounging privileged few, who are already into their first or second complimentary cocktail, and eyeing us with a mixture of mild suspicion and pity.

When I accepted a job teaching English in Seoul, South Korea (ages and ages ago), the company booked my flight on Korean Air. I immediately signed up for the frequent flier program. I flew from Chicago to Seoul, then Seoul back to Chicago (for Christmas), then Chicago to Seoul again. And with those flights I had earned enough to upgrade to Business Class when I had completed my contract.

BUSINESS CLASS! HURRAH!

The priority boarding, and immediate friendly, smiling attentiveness of the flight attendants startled me into a state of temporary paralysis. Would I like a drink now? You mean, before the other people have boarded the plane? And my choices are fresh-squeezed orange juice or champagne? So, you're saying I can just sit, sipping my champagne while the peasants struggle with the dilemma of their hand luggage and limited overhead bin space? That's okay? I don't mind if I do!

And the SEATS! Oh the spacious seats. I had enough room to sit cross-legged with my feet tucked under me, while the still-smiling flight attendant brought me a dinner menu - with options - MULTIPLE COURSE OPTIONS.

The meal was served with actual flatware, rather than plastic utensils.

This experience was a long, long time ago, and the lesser details are fuzzy, but I do recall almost bursting into tears of joy when, just before my movie selection, the STILL-smiling flight attendant brought around a basket of candy. M&Ms for my movie! On the airplane! I mean, yes, I could have very easily brought my own M&Ms and eaten them during the movie in coach, but this was just so much better.

Since that long-ago adventure in luxury, I have enrolled in the frequent flier programs of any and all airlines with which I book flights, just in case I happen to accumulate enough points to upgrade.

I have happened to accumulate enough points with American Airlines, and have happily upgraded on three transatlantic flights in the past two years, but I swear I never feel anything close to suspicion or pity for the people in coach. In fact, I feel slightly guilty, just sitting there, sipping my complimentary champagne as les miserables file past me toward the back of the plane. Luckily, the buzz that proceeds the champagne eliminates all that guilt and I can just truly enjoy the luxury of the upgrade.

Life is short. Be grateful for whatever upgrades you are given, in any shape or form, and may they always, always include a basket of candy with M&Ms.

No Place Like Home

2010-07-04T00:17:00.000-07:00

Love to travel, fine to live overseas (for a while, at least...), but always ALWAYS thrilled to go home.

Happy Birthday America.

Now check your July horoscope. We're Cancers!

I See London, I See France...

2010-07-03T00:48:00.000-07:00

(but I see London more)

When commuting back and forth between The Iraq and the U.S. we have myriad options for a gateway city. Most of my coworkers take the convenient route to Istanbul and then home to whichever U.S. city they happen to hail from. Or you could fly to Vienna, or Frankfurt, then home. I want to take advantage of my American Airlines frequent flier miles, so I have been flying through London. I am also madly in love with London, so the choice for me is a no-brainer.

I. Love. London.

London has so many different personalities, it's like the Sybil of major cities. You can visit it a squillion times and never have the same vacation twice. A squillion is a lot. I have, so far, only had four London vacations, but am aiming for a squillion.

My London vacations in nutshell-form:

#1 - I stayed in Soho at the ridiculously chic Soho Hotel. The lobby is fuschia, and has an enormous sculpture of a black kitty cat, so I felt right at home. I did a few of the touristy things on this vacation, like watching the Changing of the Guards at Buckingham Palace, and photographing Big Ben.

That's right. I photographed Big Ben from an angle. I'm edgy.

#2 - I stayed in the most darling neighborhood, ever: Marylebone. At the Mandeville Hotel. I found a screaming deal on Expedia, which left me with extra money to spend at Browns on South Molton Street. Wouldn't you know, they were having a shoe sale?

I bought the beige ones. Beige is practical. Ask your mom. I had actually seen these before, and felt very indifferent to them, and almost didn't really like them...but when I tried them on I thought "Hey, I can walk in these! They're really comfortable!" So I walked around the Marylebone neighborhood in my new shoes, and took in the Cabbages & Frocks flea market, and a few other places on the High Street.

#3 - The Theatah! I wanted to experience the West End, and so stayed at the Waldorf Hilton in the Theatah District. Normally I go to great lengths to avoid anything associated with Paris Hilton, but I had booked it on Hotwire and they wouldn't show me the hotel name until I had already paid. Blah. I had thought I was being all location-savvy, i.e. booking a Theatah District hotel, as I planned to go to the Theatah! Instead, I bought a ticket for "Breakfast at Tiffany's" which was being performed at the Royal Haymarket Theatah, the one theatah that was not exactly a hop, skip and a jump from the hotel. More like a hop, skip, jump, several javelin throws and a 400 meter sprint. The Theatah? Stunning. The show? Weeeeeell...let's just say it closed after a brief 6-month run.

#4 - Christmastime = Harrod's. I wanted to be as close to the Christmasness as possible, and really missed the chic of the Soho Hotel, so stayed at its sister property, the Knightsbridge Hotel. They upgraded me to this room:

I could see the Harrod's sign from my window. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy. This vacation was actually post-Christmas, but Christmasey-enough that the decorations were still up, and the sales were still in effect. I put on my raincoat and new Hunter Wellie boots, and stomped through the puddles in the rain to Harrod's. I had some sushi at the sushi bar, then trotted on over to the bakery section for a cheese scone, and finally concluded my eating bonanza with some fudge from the candy counter. I then waddled over to the "up" escalator to see what I could get with my Christmas Gift Card.

It's blue, it has feathers, and it is decidedly impractical like any good Christmas gift should be. It was 799 pounds, marked down to 99 pounds. Happy Christmas to all!

Vacation #5 is coming up in a few weeks, and will revolve around the almost-painfully charming Covent Garden neighborhood. Covent Garden resembles the inside of a snow-globe, it's that cute. Case in point; a cupcake shop:

Five vacations is still a ways away from a squillion, but there's still so much to see and do. Notting Hill, the London Eye, The Tower of London, double-decker buses, Westminster Abbey, any Gordon Ramsay restaurant, V&A Museum, Kensington Gardens, Royal Ascot, Elton John's White Tie & Tiara Ball...

One of my many personalities is pretty sure we'll be invited to that last one.

C'est Si Bon

2010-07-02T04:39:00.000-07:00

What to do with my vacation time? WHAT TO DO??? We get six weeks of summer break (no, I do not expect any pity here). However due to tax regulations I can only be stateside for three of them. I am thus forced to spend the remaining three weeks elsewhere. This summer "elsewhere" will be the French Riviera (am still not expecting pity, but will let you know if I require it at a later time).

After muddling through a week in Paris, last March, with my Flight of the Conchords French ("Oui oui! Baguette! Gerard Depardieu! Camembert!") I decided that I loved France enough to want to communicate with the natives in their mother tongue (insert sophomoric joke about "tongue" and "French kissing"), and in full sentences. I will be spending just over two weeks in Nice, Antibes and Cannes strolling the beaches, sipping wine, dipping everything in brie, and, most importantly, studying French. Or, wait, maybe the "most importantly" is the wine...

I have completely romanticized the Cote d'Azur into an absolute utopia (should that be capitalized?) by repeatedly, and obsessively, watching these two films:

LOOOOOOOVE THEM!!!! I have said, on numerous occasions, that if I could live anywhere in the world it would be the fictional town of Beaumont sur Mer, from "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels".

I am currently imagining that 1950s Cary Grant will pick me up at the Aeroport Nice Cote d'Azur, in the borrowed sparkly-blue Sunbeam/Talbot Alpine roadster, and whisk me off to the Rotonde casino to con hapless billionaires out of their fortunes. We will then drive up along the winding cliff-side road to find an appropriate spot for our picnic, which will include wine, brie and (for some reason) cold chicken. I will be draped in an elaborate Edith Head-designed ball gown and dripping in Cartier diamonds.

My vacation is going to be le merde!

Shark Diving in Tibet

2010-07-01T02:17:00.001-07:00

Sometimes when I'm telling stories, you know at a bar, or a party, or just to myself before I go to sleep, I will hear myself sounding a little like Hansel from Zoolander. (He's so hot right now).

"Me and my friends have been too busy bathing off the Southern coast of St. Barts with spider monkeys for the past two weeks."

or

"So I'm rappelling down Mount Vesuvius when suddenly..."

or

"This one time, I was whitewater rafting down the Urubamba River in Peru..."

When I'm recounting said stories, I'm honestly not trying to work in that I've been to somewhere superspecialthatyouhaven't, and neener neener neener. It's just that when I was riding a funny bike with a bell and a big basket, trying to find the McDonald's, I happened to be in Beijing. Or that when I had my eyelashes dyed, I was in Bali. Or that when I met my friend Whitney, we were on a cruise to Antarctica.

The things I'm doing really aren't any different from the things anyone else is doing: riding bikes, beauty treatments, meeting new friends. I just occasionally go a little further to do them.

Sometimes the activities will be once-in-a-lifetime things that could be construed as somewhat outrageous, like bungee jumping in New Zealand, paragliding in Oman or sky-diving in...Washington state. See? I do things in normal places too!

I travel because I'm a visual learner, and I won't truly understand a place until I've been there myself. I also travel because I'm moderately claustrophobic (albeit self-diagnosed) and begin to feel trapped if in one place for too long. The trips I take, and the activities in which I participate, are solely designed to keep myself entertained, and not to impress anyone else.

If I'm really trying to impress you, I'll just challenge you to a walk-off.

Grettona The Brave

2010-06-30T11:05:00.000-07:00

What constitutes bravery?

Ramona was brave in her face-off with a neighborhood dog, when she threw one of her shoes at the menacing, approaching animal. The dog ended up running off with the thrown shoe. Now, we all know how I feel about shoes...so I would probably call throwing the shoe more foolish than brave, but nonetheless! (God, I hope they weren't Pierre Hardy. Those are expensive.)

I was, surprisingly, labeled "brave" during a whitewater rafting experience in Peru - during which I was bounced out of the raft and into the bracingly cold rapids of the Urubamba River. The experience for me was somewhat surreal, and my thought process had gone a little like this:

Brain: paddle, paddle, GODDAMMIT the pooled water in the raft is freezing my toes! paddle, paddle; heading into big rock, BOUNCE...I was in the boat...and now I seem to be...out of the boat...hmmmm, that's notsogood.

And at that point I was struggling against the water, attempting to stand up, but instead having my shins banged against underwater rocks while Class IV whitecaps crashed into my torso. I eventually heard our guide yell something like "LET GO!" and I remembered in our training that we were supposed to just aim our feet forward, cross our arms over our chests, and let the current carry us. So I did that. It felt MUCH better than all the shin-banging, and even though I was then at the mercy of the river I wasn't frantic or stressed.

I had an absurdly confident kind of "I'm pretty sure this isn't how I'm supposed to die" thought process going, so I wasn't at all surprised when, after maybe 30-45 seconds of shooting down the river, our guide had powered our raft up close enough to reach out and grab onto my life vest and yank me back into the raft.

My friends were bug-eyed, gushing "OHMYGOD are you okayyyyyy????", and I was. I mean, I was freezing and violently shivering from the icy river, but still very okay. When we pulled up out of the raft and began our slow, still very shivery walk back to the van, one of my friends just looked at me incredulously and said "You are so brave. I would have had a complete meltdown if that had happened to me."

I didn't feel brave. I just felt cold. I thought about my reaction and thought "Well, what was the alternative, really?"

Life, much like that sassy Urubamba, is unpredictable. Sometimes things happen that go spiraling way beyond your control, and you just have to be "brave" enough to LET GO.

Although I don't advocate letting go of your shoes. Especially if they're Pierre Hardy, because, again, those are expensive.

Lather, Rinse, Repeat. It's Okay.

2010-06-28T08:37:00.000-07:00

Until fairly recently I was a bit driven in my quest to see EVERYWHERE before I died. I have previously mentioned that my Bible is this book:

I haven't been to 1000 places, much less THESE 1000 places, but it's good to have goals. I have made it to all seven continents, including the really cold one that everyone forgets about, and yet the "Where I've Been" application on Facebook STILL thinks that I've only been to 14% of the world. That doesn't sound right, does it? I didn't think so either!

Being moderately competitive, I wanted to show that FB app who was boss, and said "I'm NOT repeating destinations until I've been EVERYWHERE!" I pride myself on being profoundly realistic.

After ticking Italy off the list in March, having spent a week in Venice, I proceeded with my plan for "Where I've Been" Map Domination and made a few arrangements to see Romania. I probably should have been aiming at one of the larger land-mass countries, but I've always had a Dracula/Transylvania fixation that I thought I could satiate with this trip.

Italy had other plans. It simply would not let go of me. I was in a death grip of spectacular cuisine, incredible architecture, uber-chic fashion and absurdly sexy people. I had to go back! More Italy!

My new frame of mind was "Why would you go anywhere OTHER than Italy?! WHY?! VIVA ITALIA! CIAO BELLA!!!"

And so Rome it was.

Was this the best Rome photo I could find? Noooooooo, but it does incorporate several of the aforementioned fabulous aspects of Italy:

1) Architecture (sculpture)
2) Sexy Italians (did you see those legs?)
3) Fashion (I defy you to find similar legwarmers anywhere else)

I am excitedly anticipating visiting all the other cities in Italy. Every single one of them. That Facebook app can suck it.

Sooooooooooooo, yeah.

2010-06-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

I hit that magical 500 mark and just threw up mah hands and said "DONE!" The thrill of the blog was gone, and I had moved on over to BurkaGretta (which has also been languishing, and is currently hidden - it's not you, it's me) to blather on about what I have been doing in The Iraq. Hmph.

The funniest thing about my whole blogging hiatus here at TravelGretta was that whilst not blogging about travel, I was actually traveling. Member how before? When I called the blog "TravelGretta"? But I would mostly just crap on about shoes and Reality TV? IRONIC! (and I'm pretty sure I'm using that correctly, for once).

I have received a number of VERY SWEET AND COMPLETELY APPRECIATED pleas to crank it up again, and I want you all to know I miss you too.

This is where I should probably discuss how, over the past 15 months, in addition to Vienna, Paris, Croatia, and Greece, I've visited Stockholm, London, Jordan, Oman, Venice and Rome...but I'd rather show you what I bought myself for my upcoming birthday...

Okay, I can't find a photo of them. But they were on sale at Barneys.

Balloons and Confetti!

2009-08-05T12:45:00.001-07:00

Holy crap - that last post was my 500th! That is something, right?

Brakes - ON

2009-08-02T12:36:00.000-07:00

Have ceased the Summer O'Travelin', and am back in The Iraq for some more of The Teaching. Come visit at BurkaGretta!

To ease the burden of the looooooooong flight from Portland, Oregon USA to Erbil, Iraq, I did the following:

Upgraded (again) to First/Business Class
Stopped over in London for 32 hours
Stopped in Vienna, just overnight

Jet lag was no match for my savvy planning.

Full-On Fernando

2009-07-28T14:27:00.001-07:00

I finally sat down and went through all my Fernando posts (there are 23), and tagged them all, so you can scroll to the beginning and then read UP (you know, if you're bored at work, or bored at home, or bored at the pool with your laptop):

http://travelgretta.blogspot.com/search/label/FERNANDO

What Goes Around...

2009-07-28T13:48:00.000-07:00

The morning after my birthday, I think Fernando felt slightly guilty about his behavior, and so he wanted to make himself useful.

He slipped on his new Croatian flip flops, and stepped outside to get the morning paper, for my parents.

Now, I'm sure we all expected this sooner or later...

There was no note, just the baby piglet in the basket. Fernando went running for the cigarettes.

My mom was left to attend to the piglet.

McGone, I am sending Fernando back to you this week, as he is now a new father and will have to put his traveling on hold - at least until he can find someone on whom to unload the baby. We haven't named the piglet - you may want to help Fernando do a little research and try to locate the mother...

My Birthday

2009-07-27T13:30:00.000-07:00

So, in between Greece and now, we celebrated my birthday. HOORAY! I love my birthday. It was July 12, if any of you would like to mark your calendars for next year. I am registered at Christian Louboutin in Paris.

Like many travel companions, Fernando and I were starting to wear on each other's nerves by this point. We had been traveling together since June 17th, without a break, and Fernando, without a shower. Something about how he "doesn't trust the foreign water", and I refused to bathe him in Evian despite his incessant requesting.

It was a welcome respite to stop at my parents' home in Portland, Oregon to unpack, relax, do some laundry, and have birthday cake. And also to have other people to keep Fernando occupied.

I shouldn't have worried - he managed to occupy himself just fine.

Poor Herb was completely caught off guard, and kept looking at me as if to say "Was it because I was scantily clad? I wasn't wearing my collar..."

And then there was the situation with the cake.

Fernando hadn't realized there was a camera nearby, and was swearing up and down that he had no idea why the frosting was mussed.

He then proceeded to bump into silverware and several plates, as his vision was slightly blurred by something...

He miraculously rebounded when my mom brought out the port.

When I went to bed, he was still staggering around the living room, singing some blues song about "She done me wroooooong...". Egads, 'Nando, get it together.

The Rest of the Greece - Wrap up.

2009-07-25T15:00:00.000-07:00

Apologies in advance for this rushed post - but we feel like Greece was SOOOOO long ago...and so much has happened since... (cliffhanger).

In a nutshell:

Fernando drank too much

He ate too much

He almost got shot out of a cannon on the Wine & Appetizer & Hot Springs Cruise (which, in another nutshell was more like a 3 Hour Tour...a 3 Hour Tour...only a half hour of which included the wine & appetizers. Buh!)

And then, rolled around in our dolma plate at the winery. The dolmas were made with the grape leaves of the winery - fabulous!

We leave you with one last look at a gorgeous Greek sunset.

And then will explain the reason for the rush, in the next post. Cliffhanger! After the photo of the cliff! I can't make this stuff up!

Even Greecier

2009-07-14T14:55:00.000-07:00

Santorini is undoubtedly one of the most astonishingly beautiful places on Earth. We arrived by plane (stunning - get a window seat), and were then taxied up to the town of Fira, where our hotel, the Villa Renos, was located.

We checked in, then checked out the digs. Fernando was the first one out on the patio to take in the view:

This was taken standing in front of the French doors of our room (neener neener neener). We had a private patio sitting area, with table, chairs, and two lounge chairs; and a shared patio area with table, chairs and a plunge pool. Since Fernando did not have his own lounge chair, he spent most of the time in the pool.

Or, it may have had nothing to do with the absence of an extra lounge chair. He may have preferred the plunge pool because, when we arrived, there was a topless girl sunning herself in said plunge pool. Sarah and I both agreed that if you are sharing a plunge pool with two other rooms, you may want to keep your top on. I know you're in Greece and everything, but you, yourself, are Canadian.

We just ended up using the pool when Topless and her weird boyfriend weren't there. Don't even get me started on having to sit next to them at breakfast - with him making loud smooching noises all over her, while we're trying to eat. At least she had her top on for breakfast.

Next up, after enjoying the patio? Shopping! Sarah was on a quest for jewelry. Not crazy-fancy-precious-gems-jewelry, just fun, semi-precious rings the size of dinner plates.

I got one Fernando can use as a fancy headdress:

Fernando was a little bored during the jewelry store extravaganza, and I caught him trying to join this group:

He claimed they were in some sort of very important parade, and that he was the guest of honor, or something. I think he may have snuck into the mini-bar of our room before we went out shopping.

Later, we went out for our first official dinner in Santorini at a lovely place called Archipelagos. The sunset viewing is outstanding, and the wine wasn't bad either.

At the recommendation of one of our hotel's proprietors, we had booked an "All Inclusive Wine & Appetizers & Hot Springs Cruise". Fernando pretended to walk the plank, in anticipation.

This may have been his best idea yet.

Like A Greeced Pig

2009-07-14T14:23:00.000-07:00

The flight from Dubrovnik to Athens (via Vienna) was uneventful, and Fernando slept off much of his hangover in my carry-on bag.

We met up with my friend, Sarah, who had flown in from San Francisco and was very excited to meet the little piggy she had heard so much about.

It would have been a beautiful relationship, except Fernando kept calling her "Sandra" and slobbering on her cheek.

This will surprise no one, but at the restaurant (Vlassis - fantastic) Fernando attempted to run off with two mini-pitchers of wine.

I just don't even know what to do with him when he gets like this. Well, yes I do. I tuck him in my purse - in the small zippered compartment - and then ignore the muffled oinking.

We set out the next day to experience Athens! It was a million degrees, but beautifully sunny, and Sarah and I bought the multi-ticket set to visit whatever ruins were around. I am not a history buff, nor am I in the least bit scholarly, so if you came here looking for a cohesive travelogue and lesson in early Greco-Roman architecture, I am sorry. You will most likely learn nothing from this. I am very big on captioning the photos with such helpful phrases as "Look, columns."

Look, Fernando, columns.

We spent about 2 hours wandering around the Acropolis (which my sister tells me means "high city" - Acro: high; Polis: city - she is a little more scholarly), then spent 2 minutes begging for cold water at a small shop where the men were yelling "FROZEN LEMONAAAAAAADE". Frozen lemonade sounded PERFECT, but upon closer inspection it was more like the Greek version of a Slurpee. Possibly a Slurpeeokakisopolis. We just settled for warm bottled water.

We continued on to lunch at a restaurant in the Plaka, and tested out a genuine Greek salad. Fernando took one look and said "Vegetables? Are you kidding?" then dove headfirst into the feta.

The food was delicious and it refreshed us enough to continue wandering the streets of Athens for another few hours.

We did a little shoe shopping:

Laughed at the souvenir shop:

And caught the Changing of the Guard at the Parliament building

Fernando mixed wine and Mythos beer with Ouzo shots at lunch, and subsequently missed the better part of the afternoon, remaining passed out in my purse. He was still sleeping when Sarah and I were up at the hotel's rooftop bar, toasting our first night in Greece.

Tomorrow, Santorini!

We Lovnik Dubrovnik

2009-07-10T03:53:00.000-07:00

Sorry, Fernando keeps coming up with these awful puns. He's fairly easy to travel with, but when he starts drinking (and let's face it, when does he stop?) he likes to test out all of his puns, knock-knock jokes, and will occasionally stoop to the "Pull my hoof! Pull my hoof!" thing.

The humor abounds, but the tolerance does not. Fernando and I share the loathe of autobus travel, and this was, unfortunately, the only mode of transport available to us between Split and Dubrovnik. Fernando was not pleased, and expressed his disgust by rolling over and playing dead on the bus.

He managed to perk right up after we arrived, and saw that the weather was clear, and the town looked fabulous. We took a beautiful half-hour walk into Old Town Dubrovnik. The concierge at our hotel had tried to discourage the walk, instead recommending the bus. You can imagine the eye-rolling from Fernando.

The concierge said "Oh, you go this way..." (pointing along a road on the map) "...but it is not a nice walk", so I was imagining a grungy, industrial stretch of road, perhaps past ugly shipping yards, with drunk vagrants swigging mystery liquor out of paper-bag-covered bottles. It was, instead, a lovely wander through a residential neighborhood which opened up onto a cliffside walk that led right into the Old Town. I can only deduce that our concierge has unreasonably high standards for her walks.

Here we are:

We enjoyed a sunny, tasty (finally!) lunch, overlooking the Adriatic Sea. I had Diet Coke, but Fernando demanded white wine. He was having fish, and complained about the absurdity of a Diet Coke being paired with anything other than a corn dog. He's kind of a snob.

I will be the first person to say "Don't drink and shop", but Fernando headed straight for the Blue store, and decided he needed some shoes. I have the sneaking suspicion he is a bit jealous of my shoe collection, and was feeling slightly competitive.

He thought the white ones made him look fat, so we bought blue ones instead. We then spent the remainder of the trip taking scenic photos and complaining about the ice cream. Fernando suggested, for our last meal, that we "live like the locals". So we picked up a feast of sorts at the local convenience store.

I'm sure this is a typical Croatian meal for someone, somewhere in Croatia. Onwards to Greece!

Hvar You Today?

2009-07-04T01:02:00.000-07:00

We arrived on Hvar to some beautiful, sunny weather, which then, in a matter of hours, turned to a wild and windy thunderstorm with semi-torrential rains. Semi-torrential rains continued to plague our lovely little island for several days. Fernando found this door hanger to be a bit ironic.

"Sunsational" was an adjective we had yet to experience on Hvar. Fernando decided to pass the time by reading the British Marie Claire, featuring the ribald fashionista, Bruno. Bruno is fast becoming Fernando's idol, as 'Nando has frequently wondered, himself, vy do zey not half ze Nobel Prize for ze fashion?

The rains would come and go, and when they "went" we were able to grab a few hours of intermittent sunshine, during which I made Fernando go on walks with me. He has been eating a lot of gelato. This was a pretty path that we'd take...

...which led down to a small beach:

Fernando was less impressed with the beach, and more impressed with the offerings of the adjacent beach bar.

I had to remind him of what happened the last time he overindulged in Cuba Libres and Sex on the Beach, and I'm not sure it was entirely coincidental when this appeared outside our hotel...

He begrudgingly agreed to scale back and enjoy a slightly more refined drink, with cheese plate.

After all, we are not animals...oh wait.

Fernando also gamely accompanied me, one night, to a sushi restaurant, called Pirate.

Fernando agrees with me that you do not necessarily need to partake in the local cuisine the entire time you are on vacation; particularly if the local cuisine tends to be very meh. Despite the fact that Fernando insisted on ending every sentence with "Aarrrggghh, matey", the dinner at Pirate was enjoyable, and the sushi was fantastic.

The skies finally cleared, and our final day on Hvar was absolutely beautiful. We took advantage of our hotel's "share" policy, and spent the day at the sister hotel's private pool.

As you can see, Fernando was a bit shiny from his sunburn. We will pick up some aloe vera in Dubrovnik tomorrow.

Pig On The Split (er... or in Split)

2009-07-03T00:31:00.000-07:00

Croatia, Fernando has arrived!

The throngs of worshipers must have dissipated for a brief snack. No matter! We gazed out at the beautiful harbor, taking in the sturdy palm trees and the sparkling waters of the Adriatic, when Fernando mused "I wonder if I could find a good party mask here..."

Honestly, it is always "Shopping!" with him. I reminded Fernando that the IHOB corporate card was no longer valid, and that we also did not have any secret "Eyes Wide Shut"-type party to attend that night, so we just continued wandering around the ancient alleyways of Diocletian's retirement palace, periodically pausing to pose our piggy:

Split, it was too short of a romance with you! We must return! Tomorrow continues the Croatiastravaganza (I'm reaching here, I realize) when we Ferry over to the island of Hvar. I will be dragging all the luggage, as Fernando refuses to help, claiming back problems, or hangovers or something.

We've Got Laptop!

2009-07-02T02:05:00.001-07:00

Erm, but Sarah's laptop does not have the photo editing capabilities that we need to resize the photos down to Blogger-friendly size. ERGO, we must be patient for another 9 days, at which time we will resume the Fernando travel tome.

Until then, we are all drinking loads of Greek wine and having a fabulous time. And we miss you and wish you were all here with us!

Hvratska Ice Cream - HVRMPH!

2009-06-26T11:15:00.000-07:00

Fernando and I are still sans laptop, ergo no pretty photos of Hvratska (Croatia, in the local language). Many apologies. And speaking of apologies, I am owed MANY GRAND SORRIES from the people of Croatia. I have now been to Split, Hvar, and Dubrovnik (arrived today, fine thank you), and in each city you will see every other passerby eating an ice cream cone. They appear to be enjoying these ice cream cones, and who wouldn´t (OH I FOUND THE APOSTROPHE KEY!!!! It is CTRL + ALT 9!) - okay, again, who wouldn´t enjoy an ice cream cone, in a fabulously picturesque seaside summer holiday destination, right? Who?

ME, thatś who. Oh crap, I don´t think itś the apostrophe key. Oh well, it will have to do.

Back to the "ice cream", or so they call it. It is absolute crap. CRAP I SAY! They fake a sugar cone, with that papery nonsense (think McDonalds), but waffle it up so that it appears to be the real thing. THEN, they arrange their "ice cream" in that fluffy, tempting gelato-esque way - you know, where it appears to be thick, pillowy clouds of goodness? Well. I can tell you, there is no goodness, whatsoever. It tastes like that low-calorie, 1980ś ice milk rubbish, and it is not being offered as low-calorie, so I am led to deduce that it is merely cheap, fake ice cream. It is terrible, and there is no escaping it. It is literally everywhere. And people keep eating it! It is making me bananas! When I tried it today, in Dubrovnik (somehow hoping that here it might be good? Different?), I was so exasperated, that, after I threw the unfinished cone in the trash, I found myself wanting to run up to everyone else eating a cone and scream "YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY BE ENJOYING THAT, CAN YOU??? IT IS CRAP!!!!"

But I didn´t. I marched straight into the nearest convenience store and purchased a $4 SWISS chocolate bar, to erase the bad taste of the "ice cream".

Fernando would echo my sentiments, but he is passed out in the bathtub.

We Are In Hvar

2009-06-21T00:47:00.000-07:00

Fernando did not want his fans to worry about him. We cannot post photos, as did not lug very cumbersome laptop with us on ferry. But I can tell you, Fernando has been eating gelato every day and it is beginning to show.

We love Hvar! More later!

Fernando in Wien

2009-06-19T00:22:00.000-07:00

We ventured out into the city, on a fantastically sunny day in Vienna. However, when we neared St. Stephan's cathedral, and Fernando caught a glimpse of a chattery school group,

he said "Maybe we shouldn't bother with the touristy stuff today. Let's just go shopping." I am nothing if not the consummate travel hostess, so I acquiesced. We found this:

Can you hear angels singing? If not, your iPod is turned up too loud. I saw Lanvin. I saw Giambattista Valli. I saw Prada.

Fernando saw these fantastic Alaia booties, in my size, for 150 Euro (marked down from 790 Euro).

ALAIA BOOTIES! 150 EURO! I am never shopping without him again.

The store didn't have anything in 'Nando's size, but he still managed to have an excellent day. He fell in love with a model.

Oh those Austrian pigs - so shiny and pretty! I think they exchanged phone numbers.

And we did, actually, do something a bit cultural. I took him to see a piano concert at the Musikverein.

We took the photo while people were still filing in. The place was absolutely packed, to hear this:

Fernando is a big fan of Chopin and Prokofiev, so he enjoyed the performance immensely. We walked back to Mariahilferstrasse afterward, and sat at an outdoor cafe to enjoy some Sacher Torte and wine.

I think Fernando might love Vienna as much as I do. I have no doubt he'll be back.