Adventures 2013 - Volume 2, Take me to the Bubble Beds!

Looking out our window Tuesday morning offered no sign of weather reprieve - more rain, more wind, more yuck.  But, you know what?  Who cares!  We're going to the spa!

La Perla (www.la-perla.net) isn't what North Americans would consider a typical spa.  Sure, it has facial and massage type treatments, but it's known mainly for its 'water therapies'.  Located right on the beach, I suppose they know from water.

Over a mandatory coffee, Alex gives us a lay of the land and we all head downstairs to begin our morning of relaxation.  We start in this enormous whirlpool where jet stream stations pulse at different areas of your body as you walk through the circuit - shoulders, quads, hips, glutes, calves and even feet are given full attention and it doesn't take long to see why this place is so popular (it's a workday Tuesday morning and the place is doing brisk business).  In fact, the locals don't consider this type of spa a luxury at all, it's a necessity of relaxation and general life therapy.  I can dig it.  After being pulsated almost to the point of jello, we head to our second pool, and lie for what could have been hours on the most luxurious bubble beds.  Bubbles.  All over you bubbles.  Bubbles on your back, flip over and bubbles on your tummy.  I love bubbles.  I want a bubble bed.  Next, downstairs.  A bit of a trip here, really.  It's a bit darker and the pool itself looks like something out of that mid - 1990s Matthew Broderick movie "Road to Wellville".  There are stationary bikes, rowing machines and other fitness apparati in the pool.  People are exercising.  It's all so odd.  We must try!  It's hard not to laugh, really as we're so used to a 'more you sweat, the better it is' type of workout mentality at home.  We try our hands and feet at a few machines and then onto the sauna and steamroom.  Joy.  Our two hours are almost up and after a traditional whirlpool and little laydown overlooking the beatch, it's time to go - the water circuit runs on time and this two hour glimpse of heaven was purchased for 25 euros.  A bargain in any language.

Relaxing works up an enormous appetite and now it's time for our pintxos tour of San Sebastián.  Pintxos are the Basque equilvalent of tapas and the best pintxos in Basque Country are found in San Sebastián.  Perfect.  The whole idea of pintxos is perfect.  You have a small (literally translated pintxos means pinch) plate, accompanied by a small glass of wine or beer and off you go to the next place, to sample more pintxos and drink more beer.  Pintxos are laid out on the bar and you take what you want, sometimes ordering hot ones to order.  Everything is delicious, fresh, unique and local.   The whole concept of 'food to table' and '100 mile diet' is laughable here (and of course in most parts of Europe) - that's just what they do.  

It's time now for our mandatory afternoon siesta.  We have a big night ahead.  More eating at Arzak.

The Basque region is known all around the world as a gastronomic paradise: from pintxos to wine to more Michelin rated restaurants per capita than anywhere else in the world.  I'm well aware that fine dining, coupled with more expensive, doesn't necessarily mean better but when in Rome ... So, we decide on Arzak simply because it's located closest to the hotel.   As an added bonus, the restaurant is run by a father / daughter team who live with their families above the restaurant.  So adorable.

The experience itself is beyond compare - a staff of thousands (okay, no, but LOTS) whisking away cutlery, pouring wine and water.  A tasting menu so intricate it's hard to know where to begin.  Flavour combinations so peculiar, until they land in your mouth and you believe it was always meant to be.  The dining room itself was small and intimate but in pure European fashion not at all snooty.  A lovely French couple next to us struck up a conversation mid - meal and when Chef Arzak made his rounds later in the evening, we all squealed with joy.  I've heard that many people plan trips to San Sebastián around reservations here and I can see why.  For 5 hours we were treated like princesses, eating innovative food made with care and even whimsy - purees shaped like clothespins, chocolate balls playing marbles with each other, pop rocks on candies of coca-cola!  I can't say I would do a 230 Euro (now, that is including lots of wine) dinner every night, but once or sometimes you simply must.  It's simply a must do.

Now, today, it's Wednesday and - guess what. It's raining AGAIN. We seek refuge in the Museum of San Telmo, a museum devoted to Basque culture. The featured exhibit now is on the Basque language and it's an extremely well put together exhibition bringing thoughts of language and culture extinction to our minds. I heard much of this in Hawaii last year, and the notion is just so sad, but a sign of our modern times.

We're now off for a short siesta, as pre dinner cocktails await.

Adventures 2013 - Volume 1, Born to be Basque

Well, hello!

Hello from the opulent, stunning, luxurious (and every other over the top adjective you can summon) Hotel Maria Cristina in San Sebastián, Spain! At this moment, I am listening to howling winds and a hailstorm as I eat the most delicious chocolate and contemplate having a beer.  It's all good.

Getting here was a bit touch and go.  Leaving the night before official "Snowmageddon" at home had us a bit concerned.  We stared at this:

from the inside of our cosy airplane and wondered if we'd take off on time, or at all. We were off without much of a worry though, and a short 6.5 or so hours later landed in Brussels, a city whose slogan simply touches my heart "Welcoming.  European.  Efficient."  Love Brussels.  More of that (hopefully) next week as for now, we're onto Bilbao and then a sleepy bus ride to San Sebastián.  In truth, the entire trip has been sleepy.  Or at least attempted sleepy - time shifts and the act of actually flying gets me pretty tired, but it's wired and tired which is not necessarily a good sleep combination.  You grab what you can when you can but all in all it's tiring.  Poor me.  Even worse?  When we arrive in San Sebastián, we can't head to our hotel and sleep because our dear friend Alex is here to pick us up at the bus station and deliver us to our hotel.  He'll likely want to talk.  Jerk.

We arrive in our room and can't really wrap our heads around the crazy beauty of it.  The Santa Maria Cristina is San Sebastian's premier hotel, part of Starwood's Luxury collection and on Conde Nast's Gold List.  The place is pretty awesome.  I'd never think of staying here at full pop, but through some luck and an amazing friend we are lucky to call the palace (not a typo) home for the next six nights.

The view, from our very own Juliet balcony, is equally stunning giving us perfect eye access to a square and the Urumea River where you can see (crazy) surfers riding waves 365 days a year.

After a short nap (I mean, we only really did this to accommodate Alex) we head out.  First, for coffee.  Coffee the way it was intended to be : dark, rich, strong and clean.  I could drink coffee forever here, but then I'd be up forever here which isn't really so great a trade off.  I will ration my joy.  Next up, dinner, where we meet Alex's love bug of a husband Raul.

We all make fast friends, eating, laughing, drinking, talking and soon head out into the chilly night for an orientation walkabout and ... ice cream.  Loving it already.

Saturday morning now, and we decide to go full throttle and order room service.  Everyone does this, right?   Yeah, I know.  But once?  We can do it once?  Eating croissants in your cozy bathrobe after being awoken by said croissants at, what, 930am is a pretty normal thing to do on holiday, right?  Yeah, I know.  But once.  We did it once!  Andrea can never have orange juice again.  The bar was just set so high.

   

We're soon off to meet Alex, Raul and their friend Uri who is in town for the weekend.  It's a big weekend here in San Sebastian - it's Carnavales!  Everyone is dressed in costume and the beauty of this is that no one is too cool for school - when I say everyone dresses up, everyone does! Young and old take to the streets ready for fun and adventure.  Our first adventure of the day takes us to one of two of San Sebastian's vegetarian restaurants.  Featured on the menu is typical fare - quinoa, tofu, salads and duck.  Only in Europe.  It is here we meet the last member of our weekend sextet, Adrian. Everyone is quite excited for what the night will bring. To be honest, Andrea and I have no idea what to expect but in the care of these Fab Four we are in 110% - Vamanos! as they say in Spain (and Dora The Explorer).

We need a nap. A good one. As a bit of a precursor, tonight is a perfect storm of fun for our boys - first, it's the airing of the Melodifestivalen. This is the 53rd year for the festival - Sweden's music competition to select their entry for Eurovision. Most countries just pick their performer, but not Sweden, oh no. Swedes are very serious about their pop so they run this competition over what seems like months - complete with live telecasts and dial in voting - to determine who will represent. We are all gathered at Alex & Raul's tonight for (I think) the semi-finals and the whole thing is completely insane but totally fun. We hear a 'back when he was cute' (sorry, Andrea) Leo DiCaprio lookalike, some Swedish Housewives (their real name), an Ali G wannabe and one of the winners to the next round, a woman whose song is titled "Only Dead Fish Float Upstream". It was pretty catchy. We're eating fondue and drinking wine and laughing at our costumes. Which brings us to the second part of our evening: a Carnvale party themed to a popular 80s Spanish television program called UNO DOS TRES. We are all in 80s garb (which suffered a bit of a translation gap as Andrea and I were cast offs from Dynasty and the boys looked like cute geeky nerds). The party, hosted by Drag Queens, was in a cavernous warehouse, with two dance rooms and Raul will be DJing in both rooms over the course of the night. What can I say about this party that will make it sound as fun as it was? It was the type of party where you wished all your friends were there to see it, live it, experience it and dance it. No one was hanging by the wall. No one was waiting for better music. I'm not sure if anyone was even talking. But everyone, and I mean everyone, was in costume and everyone was dancing. Most guests dressed up in groups, so we had the Flight Attendants, the Equestrians, the Amazons. There were lotsa abs and lotsa leg and not much cellulite.  It was a straight girls nightmare.

Listen, there isn't really much I can say here. We photobombed about 1000 pictures. I caressed the abs of a wee Amazon. We returned to the hotel with bouillon cubes and a sleeve of condoms at approximately 6am. Oh, relax. It was a straight girls nightmare, remember? *eye roll* I'm sure Alex & Raul do this every weekend. Lucky bastards.

Good Morning Sunday. Or, suuunday?! Already?! Alex, Raul & Uri are set to pick us up at 2pm for an afternoon at the Cider House. Adrian, who lives 15 minutes away in France (I don't understand how this is possible either) will meet us there. Surprisingly, we're all coherent! And starving! A quick drive takes us outside the city and we arrive at a rustic farmhouse dating back to 1527. This particular cider house, the Petritegi, is family owned and run. You walk in, grab a glass, sit at a large picnic table and continue to eat and drink all the cider you can for about 3 hours. What a way to spend an afternoon!

Pleasures like this don't come easy, though. I became a rough and tumble woman this afternoon, learning to crack walnuts WITH MY FINGERS! I am so much better prepared for life now you have no idea - there is video. It is awesome, as, obviously, am I.

The food was incredible - fresh bread, chorizo, omelettes, cod with peppers, big ass steak, cheese, and those hard earned walnuts.

We leave, stuffed, happy with belly aches from laughter. God, I love it here.


Monday brings us to a planned walking city tour with our Alex acting as tour guide. Unfortunately, the weather isn't quite cooperating. To be honest, the weather has been horrible - damp, rainy, cold. Simply not weather we are used to at home. No matter how much you layer, your bones are still cold. Not fun, but tough luck, get on with it! We manage to walk the length of the gorgeous (weather or not) San Sebastián beach before it starts to pour - a remarkable type of rain, really. Hard, almost hail, coming at you from all sides making an umbrella pretty useless. We seek refuge at the funicular (come on, who doesn't love a funicular?!), the top of which is a landing pad for spectacular city views and a rather interesting amusement park, now closed as it's off season.

More food, more ice cream, more pop songs and the promise of more tomorrow ... spa day, and Arzak. I know what you're thinking ... you were Born to be Basque too.

H is for ...

... HOLD! 

Let's take a little break, shall we?  Une petite pause, as it were.  Yes?

This Alphabet Game has been quite delightful - I'm enjoying the organizational aspects far better than a bowl of Alphagettis, that's for sure!  - and I hope the same level of enjoyment has been there for you.  It's just that right now I'd like to press the hold button for a short little while as I attempt to try something new.

You see, in ONE SLEEP I'm off on a wondrous adventure and I'd like to try my hand at a travel blog.  I don't know how it will go.  I can absolutely commit to writing everyday when I'm gone (remember the fun times we shared at TIFF?) as in general I think this is how travel blogs are best consumed, but I just don't know if I'm that kind of writer.  I'm not big on descriptions.  I don't want to write stuff like "today we went to a cafe and drank wine".  That doesn't sound much fun, does it?  I also don't want to write stuff like "today we walked down a cobblestone street and happened upon a charming outdoor patio, full of natives and tourists alike partaking in the universal activities of drinking wine and sharing laughter".  See what I mean.  ?!

So let's just see how it goes, okay?  I did spend a fair chunk of time editing a travel blog last year.  Editing is really hard - especially for a bossypants know-it-all like me. At one point I actually re-wrote an entire day but thankfully came to my senses before returning it - I mean, how insulting AND conceited can you be?  (Rhetorical, people.  Rhetorical.)  In the end, I think the blog was quite good and well received - certainly not because of me, but I'd like to think I helped it along just a little.  A little. - and now I want to see if I can do it all myself.  I know what I want to accomplish and I figure the rewards are twofold:  first, it's like you're coming on my adventure with me and, most important, when I come back I won't bore you with all the details because you've heard about them already!  WIN/WIN!

All that's left to do now is put everything on my dining table into my suitcase (my travel wardrobe is distinctly Fifty Shades of Black), get some Euros, watch two seasons of Happy Endings, figure out how to use my new camera (because travel blogs need pictures!), think of a catchy slogan for this travel blog, and, well, GO! 

Nos vemos en Espana mis amigos!

H is for Hold!  And ... Hasta Pronto.  ;)

G is for ...

... Girls.

LOOK.  I am trying.  I am really, really trying.  And for those of you who know me, and those who don't, I will declare it (again) now: when I try, I TRY HARD. 

I am trying with all my might, determination, will power and perseverance to like this HBO / pop culture phenomenon known as Girls and ... it's just not happening.

I can't relate to the Girls.  I can't come to care about these Girls.  I can't understand Girls. 

Is it because Lena Dunham's tattoos are so ugly I can't concentrate on anything else?  Is it because the Girls are so annoying and self indulgent and not very nice and living in subsidized la-la-land?  Is it because I only laugh on the inside maybe, maybe once per episode?  Is it because I can't see myself being one of these Girls?

I don't know!  I don't know why I care!  It's just a TV show for crying out loud.  But is it?  Is it just that?  Obviously I don't think so.  For some peculiar reason Girls has become a proper bellwhether to what's what in the popular culture world for me.  If I say I don't like this show, I feel I am basically flying my white flag of in- the- knowness. 

I am declaring that I'm (gasp) old.  It's depressing.  Not as depressing as admitting to not being able to hear the difference between Mumford & Sons and the Lumineers, but almost.  Almost.  Sort of as depressing as taking TV recommendations from your Mom (but guys, seriously, Scandal is an awesome show).  Kind of as depressing as bowing out of 11:45pm karaoke invitations because you'd just rather go home to bed, even though there is no one else in said bed.  Maybe the same depressing as buying a wrist brace, which thankfully was not located in the same aisle as the Depends.*

Sigh.

What of this?  What am I to do with this? 

I can deal with things passing me by.  I'm completely fine with not being able to "get" everything.  But I thought technology was my thing, my 'I'm old so please don't explain to me what a pixel is but kindly tell me everytime I ask and don't make me feel dumb'.  I can also absolutely deal with getting older, but I don't want to become that person.  That person who poo-poos everything new and seemingly hip because it's new and hip.  That person who looks at, say, a toaster and declares, in perfect Maggie Smith "whatever would you use that for?".  I mean, really, shoot me now. 

Maybe I'm clinging.  Am I clinging too hard to this bizarre self - imposed notion that in order to stay cool, hip, relevant and young I also need to keep on top of what's the what with "the kids these days"?  Let's be honest.  I've never been really hip.  I really like listening to Easy Rock.  I'm not all together cool either.  Have you seen my closet?  I need a cardigan intervention!  Young?  Nah, not quite.  At 42, even if you don't believe me, I am 42 and thus no longer young.  Face it.  At 42 you're just not.  Now, am I relevant?  Well, that's not for me to say.  I think I do my best to keep aware of the what's what and formulate my own opinions about them. I think this is maybe a better strategy than just riding the wave of what's cool because it's hot at the moment.  It's better than hanging on to things that logically must pass you by because it's just not your time for them anymore. Mmm.   I see.   This is how it works then, is it?  My GirlsPilgrimage has decidedly led me to that confident place where you like what you like and say what you say and you simply don't care what this means or says about you. 

Damn you, Girls! 

*These items have been listed for purely illustrative purposes.  Any likeness to the author of said post is purely coincidental and, of course, completely true.

F is for ...

... fuck.

Fuck me.
Fuck You.
FUCK IT.

Fuck.

F is for Fuck.

E is for ...

... Ephesus.

In September of 2010 I took a really monumental trip. It was monumental for a number of reasons, least of which was that I was away, on this trip, for a month.  An entire month of vacation from work, real life, family, friends and doldrum obligations.  Exciting, to be sure, but daunting - how to survive with limited contact?   I'm a contact type of person.  I like to be in the know and in the middle of things - what will everyone do without me?  Will my office fall apart (I hope so!)?  I worried for a bit about my friends, both tried and true and one, specifically, sweet and new.  Will I be forgotten (I hope not!)?   What of my plants (Who cares!)?

The most important thing about this trip, though, was that I was going with my Mom, to Greece.  This was to be her first trip back there since my Dad passed away and it wasn't going to be easy.  There was no way she was going by herself.  Not because she simply wouldn't go by herself (my Mom can do many, many things remarkably well but travelling alone is not one of them), but because she shouldn't have to.  She shouldn't have to venture into this emotional minefield alone.  So, off we went.  The two of us, together, on a trip completely planned with her in mind in a way that wasn't going to make me completely crazy.

We started off at the Grande Bretagne in Athens, up to that point the most luxurious hotel I've ever stayed at.  With breathtaking views of the Acropolis and rooms larger than my condo, we were off to a great start.  We then embarked on a 10 day cruise, taking us to Greek Islands and also to Turkey.  From there, back to Athens for more exploring and then, onwards to the town that thinks it's a city, Sparta.   In our time there, we visited with so many people who I'm sure up until that point had believed - or at least wanted to believe - that my Dad's death was merely a cruel game of broken telephone.  An impossible untruth - the last time we saw him he was so full of life, so strong, so Nikos, they'd tell us. And yes, that was true.  And that's how you should remember him, we said.  Seeing my Mom there without him drove the point home and hard, and being there without him was so, so strange for both of us.  These people, for the most part, were all my Dad's childhood friends.  Friends he had remained incredibly close and connected with since leaving Greece in 1952 at the age of 17, all without the power of the internet, or even letters.  Kind of amazing, really.  These people were and are quite remarkable and they reaffirmed for me the awesome person my Dad was.  That's always pretty special - knowing you somehow haven't endowed someone with characteristics and personalities that live only in your own head.  That other people see what you see too.  They know what you know.

Hotel Views, Athens

Me & Mom, Acropolis Museum, Athens

All of our time in Sparta was actually spent in a village just outside of that town that thinks it's a city, called Petrina.  Our closest family friends have a villa there - there is no other way to describe the majesty of this property - and each morning we would wake to the sounds of roosters, and fall asleep to the sounds of absolutely nothing.  Both these daily bookends took some getting used to.  Fresh figs and walnuts and grapes and oranges were at our fingertips and the beach was merely 20 minutes away.  These, all, soon became expected.  We ate constantly.  Constantly.  I'd go for hours long walks in the afternoons with my iPod and my thoughts when everyone was siesta-ing and gaze through the hilltops into, well, not much.  The village was extremely rural and since everyone else was sleeping, extremely quiet.  Some days I'd have to turn back after a short while because it was just so HOT.  Late September and over 40 degrees of pure non-humid heat.  Sweltering, comforting, warmth.  These were our days.  These were our glorious days.  We ventured out to the tiniest island called Elafonisos one day, and popped into Sparta on a few others but otherwise we ate, I walked and we talked and laughed and ate some more and watched Greek soap operas and read Greek gossip magazines and, yes, ate even more.  As I said, glorious.

Good Morning, Petrina

Elafonisos

Apart from this almost otherworldly daily routine, the trip was filled with, well, Greece.  Say what you will about the country's economical struggles but you can't dispute that no other place in the world melds the mythical, historical  and simply beautiful quite like the Motherland.  You need to believe to get Greece.  In order to fully appreciate the labryinth at the Palace of Knossos in Crete, you need to believe that minotaurs could exist.  In order to fully drop your jaw at the largesse at Cape Sounion or remoteness of Delos, you're totally fine believing that Poseidon, Apollo and Artemis were real people.  And Gods, but mostly real people.  I had some great conversations with my Mom about this stuff, and while we were both of course completely skeptical, in the end, we just shrugged our shoulders and accepted it.  It helped what when this talk (finally) reached it's conclusion we were both gazing at the magical Santorini sunset, which allows for the most absurd to become completely possible.

As happens in the course of history, conquerers become the conquered and now much of what was once 'Greece' now lies in other territories and countries in the surrounding geography.  Ephesus is one of these places - famed for the Temple of Artemis (her, again) and one of the Seven Ancient Wonders of the World, the city, in the classical Greek Era of the 1st Century BC, was one of the largest in the Mediterranean world.  Ephesus was soon conquered by the Romans, then the Persians and finally the Turks and is now formally located in the Izmir Province of Turkey, mainly as an enormous open air museum / tourist area / blow your mind type of place.

Ephesus

Of all the things my eyes landed upon during this trip, it is Ephesus that stays with me the most.  The sheer size of these buildings - libraries, schools, public baths, running tracks, amphitheatre - was humbling.  The literal strength of these pillars of stone, mind blowing.  They withstood earthquakes and battles and ravages of time for thousands and thousands of years and are still there.  They are still there.  It was simply awesome in the original sense of the word.   To think of what happened there, the lives lived, the trials and tribulations which I'm sure were no different than our own but somehow they seem so.  They seem more grand, more substantial, more interesting.

When it's all over, you do as you do - you return richer in experience, literally poorer in pocketbook but always much, much, fuller in outlook and memory.  We need this.  We need to get out of ourselves to see what was and where we are.  This trip didn't change me, per se, but it enriched my appreciation for many things - my Dad and the country of his birth, my Mom as top notch travel companion yet horrible picture taker and my own ability to (almost) check out and be comfortable doing almost nothing for long stretches of time.  Everything and everyone managed (almost) just fine without me.  Of course and obviously.  I mean, it's not like I'm the God of Making Sure Everything's Okay.  If one existed, of course.  ;)

Cruising (aka Mom can centre a picture if she really tries)

.... E is for Ephesus. 

D is for ...

... Deal.

I'll rarely admit to being good at anything, but one thing I know I'm really good at is playing cards.  Not genteel card games like Bridge or Euchre but hardcore ones like Gin Rummy (and its many iterations) and real poker (Texas Hold 'Em? HA!  Amateurs!).  When most little girls were brushing the hair of their My Little Ponies, I was sitting at the kitchen table with my Papou and my Dad learning to play cards.  Holy Crap.  It sounds so white trash and Child Services, but seriously, when we weren't playing weeklong games of Monopoly or building epic cities with Lego this is what we did.  If you want to become great at something, you have to play above your level and playing with these two was some serious Mr Miyagi / Grasshopper stuff.  I may have been little, but I wasn't treated that way around the kitchen-come-card table.  I got really good, really fast and the one day when I finally beat my Dad I knew I was ready for the Big Time. (Relax people!  We didn't go on some father / daughter crazy Vegas gambling spree!  I was just allowed to play with all the other adults at Christmas Time!  Sheesh!). 

While I loved the act of playing cards, I always hated dealing the cards.  It's part of the game, sure, but it was just annoying.  I could never get the flow of that super awesome 'waterfall' like trick going and I'd always lose track of how many cards I had actually dealt and I'd have to start over and it was such a pain.  I always wanted someone else to deal for me.  I just want to play, I don't want to deal!  But that's not how it works.  I was never given a free ride, regardless of my pouting.  The rules were simple:  If you want to play, you have to deal.  And whether you're a little girl learning to play cards with the big boys, or a big one living your life large, it's simply impossible to ignore the rules of the game.  You can't just play.  You must deal.  Sooner or later, ya just gotta deal.

D is for Deal.