Angelina and Brad we are not

Cretan dogs choose you: how very Chuck Norris

There are a couple things on this island that Cretans will probably never run out of… ever.  To name just a few: olive oil, orange juice, lamb, raki, tavernas, goat shit (seriously it is everywhere), bad drivers, beautiful views, terrible roads, honey, and stray cats and dogs. I’d like to focus on that last one for now because I’ve now got some personal experience. Personal experience in the form of a stray dog we now know as Bob Wiley.

But before we jump into “What About Bob?” I’d first like to shed some light on a very important topic (in an after-school special style, if you will):

There is a very large stray cat/dog problem here and it will most likely stay this way because there is no such thing as a pound/SPCA, nor any organization to help and for some unknown reason they will not take the time to “fix” any of the animals (Bob Barker would be in PSA heaven here). The Cretan idea of animal population control equals a €5 box of poison and some raw meat. Sad, but true.  This is also one reason most of the strays are scared of people. This is really the only thing I do not like about living in Greece. There are as many cats as there are fleas and I have seen dogs with and without homes that I would love to save.

Although their practices are savage there are a few people that try to help as best they can…and so we found out for ourselves back in late March.

And here we go…

This one day back in late March Kip asks if I saw the puppies at the end of our road (So stupid. Do you even know me? I don’t notice anything) and I said no.  But all I had to hear was the word “puppies” and off I go in search of them. I was successful and brought the two, cute little bag o’ bones back to the house.  Not wanting to get too attached, I simply referred to them as “the twins”. I decided to keep them with the intention of taking them to the local vet and dropping them off-- like the vet is some sort of safe haven. Had I known what the future held for me, I would have just put them in a basket covered with a blanket on the vet’s doorstep, knocked on the door and ran like hell.  Instead, I took the twins to the vet and told them that I’d found these orphans alone and blah, blah, blah.  The vet people looked at me with a confused look and basically told me that they were now my dogs/my responsibility.  Huh?  No.  I just found them and I was trying to be nice and humane.  Apparently, the “finders keepers” policy is alive and well when it comes to stray animals in Greece. So needless to say I was stuck with two, (2) month-old girl puppies and a phone number of someone who may be able to help (read: no help at all).

Now fast forward a few weeks, Kip and I were heading home from a lovely day at the beach when we see a man and dog walking near the entrance to our road. We pass by them and go up the house. We pull into the driveway, get out, and, like a magic trick, the damned dog from the road was right next to us!!

Enter: Bob Wiley.

He had a look that clearly said, “I am sooo glad I found you guys and I am so gonna stay here forever and ever and ever.  Oh, and by the way… what’s for dinner?”  

WTF?!! Oh Heyll No!! No way is another dog going to stay here.  This ain’t no rest home.   So I led him down the road to where we first saw him using some food as bait and I turned to walk back home.

He actually beat me back to the house.

We sprayed him with the hose; chased him with a broom. We did everything but kick him and he kept coming back -- wagging tail and all. He pretty much told us he was setting up shop with us. So within a matter of weeks, we went from having 1 dog, to an unruly and mix-matched brood of 4.  

Shortly after Bob showed up at our house, he managed to go next door and chew a designer flip flop that ended up costing us 200€. That’s all I will say about this, because quite frankly it was a bunch of bullshit and I am still bitter. After this we’d had enough and decided we would play the Greeks’ game and just go drop him off in a town a few miles away (about a 10 minute drive in the car). At last our pack was dwindling and we were back to 3 dogs. We were at 3 dogs for a total of 24 hours.

Bob showed up the next night!

Seriously!! These Greek dogs are smart and tenacious. I am pretty sure if that was Gibbs, we would have never seen him again; he probably would have suffered a heart attack after the first hour on his own and if a heart attack wouldn’t have taken him surely starvation would have (my boy likes to eat).  I told Kip that Bob deserved a day of rest and a nice meal. So two days later we load him back into the car and drive him further into the town, driving up and down some streets to try and disorient him (much like spinning a blindfolded child before trying to pin the tail on a donkey).  We wished him luck with his life and let him loose.

He was back before Kip left for work in the morning (is this some sort of new therapy?!).

I thought to myself, “OK, Bob. You win this round.” Though he seemed a bit smug about his boomerang-like abilities, so I was not as impressed.  A little humility goes a long way.  We fed him and picked another town in the opposite direction that was even further away from our home and drove him there that night. The date:  May 10, 2012.  Again, we wished him well and sent him on his way.

And all was quiet.

After too many complaints and my broken heart, a week later I had to let the twins go as well. Luckily, they were young and hadn’t developed their Greek GPS abilities yet, but I hoped they were old enough to fend for themselves and I still hope that they stick together and watch each other’s backs on the tough and hungry streets of Crete (or have found another forever home).  Finally, back to just one dog.  Gibbs seemed confused about all the comings and goings of these intruders, and while we we think he ultimately enjoyed having some playmates, we’re sure he’s glad to have our full attention (food) again.

So now here we are on June 2, 2012. It’s a beautiful Saturday afternoon here and Kip and I have been lounging by the pool overlooking the beautiful bay and rocky mountains and hillsides that surround our home. We’ve just finished our lunch and we head back outside to resume our poolside lounging. Kip calls me over to the side of the house to see something, and sure as shit there he is… BOB WILEY!!!! He’s laying by the front door like he never effing left, and when the hell did he even sneak up here? We were only inside long enough to eat a turkey sandwich!! Thoughts about Bob’s journey flood my head and I start cracking up. All Kip can do is shake his head and say “Can you believe this shit?” over and over again. Then the real fun begins. We can only think of poor Bob Wiley, a canine version of Bill Murray’s character in the quintessential comedy, “What About Bob?” walking the streets of Crete with his mantra:

“I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful. I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.” All the while shouting, “DR. LEO MARVIN. Has anyone seen DR.LEO MARVIN??” to all the other dogs. Probably around day 8 he started taking baby steps. “Baby steps over the rock. Baby steps down the hill. Baby steps up the hill. Baby steps until nighttime. Baby steps wake up. Baby steps over the rock.”

We could go through the whole “What about Bob?” movie, replacing Bill Murray with this mutt from Crete and Dr. Leo Marvin with Kip and me. So that’s what we did.  We reenacted the entire movie poolside all afternoon… and yes it was awesome …and yes I’m still cracking up about it!

I can honestly only imagine what poor Bob went through to get back to us. As far as I’m concerned, he has certainly earned the right to stay with us a little longer (I’m guessing he’s realizing this as well). Hell, after the flip flop incident we have basically paid for him already.

Depending on how things go, I may just have to play a bunch of Neil Diamond songs and then maybe he will decide to divorce us (“So, what you're saying is that even though you are an almost-paralyzed, multiphobic personality who is in a constant state of panic, your wife did not leave you, you left her because she... liked Neil Diamond?”)… because at this point it seems he is only going to leave on his terms.

UPDATE:  June 7, 2012.  Bob has gone missing for the last two days.  However, before he left, he brought his girlfriend to our place.  I feel like we’re being duped.  Bob’s babystepping it back to town and telling all the other flea bags what suckers us Americans living on top of the hill are.  If he comes back in a few days with yet another dog, I’m going to be convinced that we’ve been set up!!  Stay tuned.

                                                            Mr. Bob Wiley

It's all olives to me

My Day as an Olive Picker:

The other morning, Kip and I ran into our landlady, Lydia, and she told us that her husband and a few friends were “picking” her olive trees the next day to make olive oil. Since I have been here in Crete, I have seen countless olive trees and workers, and I have been a bit fascinated with the whole thing. Me being an olive hater, but an olive oil lover, I wanted to be part of it, so I volunteered myself to help with the “picking”.

Lydia said that would be great and thanked me. I called my new friend Susie to set it up that she and her husband, John, would pick me up the next day for the “picking” (you sure she said 8:45?...am?  As in, in the morning??? Oops, didn’t realize we would start so early!).

The next morning, I was up and dressed in what I believed was the perfect olive “picking” outfit. I had on a few layers, jeans, a hat and my rain boots.  I was very much looking the part of a professional picker and so excited about the day! Susie picked me up, we swung back to get John and we were on our way!

As our day began with coffee and tea-- coffee for the American (me!), German, and Dutch, and tea for the three Brits and the Ethiopian (how very U.N. of us), we were given an overview of olive “picking” and what to expect for the rest of the day -- By the way no one could ask for a better group of people to spend the day with!  We certainly made an awesome olive “picking” posse!

SIDEBAR: After the overview, I realized this whole process was not a very complicated one and I was very gung-ho at that point.  It wasn’t gonna be like picking cotton in the south, or rooting around the french countryside like pigs for truffles...I was going to kick some ass and take some olives’ names. BRING IT ON!

We started by pulling out these huge tarps that were used to catch the olives after we “picked” them and spread them out under the trees so we don’t lose any of the little buggers. With that first tug of the tarp, a trickle of perspiration and the first layer of my perfect “picking” outfit came off (we’d just begun, holy crap what did I get myself into?).

As you may have noticed I used quotations for the word “pick”.   I did that because you really don’t “pick” olives as much as you, well, how do I put this delicately?  Well, you just bash the ever loving shit out of the tree until they plummet to the earth. Like I said... not too complicated.

Our very advanced tools for this process consisted of plastic pitchfork looking things that have a life span (in my case) of 1.5 olive trees, a generator powered spin-y thing that REALLY shakes the tree to “encourage” the olives to jump from their leafy perches, tarps to catch the olives, and a sorting table and a bunch of big brown burlap sacks.

After about a half-hour or so, my gung-ho-ness wore off a little bit (I mean, don’t we just hire people to do this kind of thing?!?!) and I tried a variety of methods of hitting the tree, while at the same time using my cat-like reflexes to dodged the spin-y thing that made the olives come flying out of the tree at Mach 10 to pelt you.

My swings:  I tried a baseball swing, over-handed, under-handed, left-handed, and even a golf swing which made me realize if I’d had my driver with me it would have been pretty damn cool.

Then it was time to move the tarp to the next tree (yeah...that was just the first tree). Not complicated still, but holy hell it was heavy, there are a bunch of olives up on those trees.  Who knew?!?!  So as I walked with the very surprisingly heavy olive tarp to place it under the next tree... WHAM!!!!!!!  I hit my head on a branch and I am pretty sure I heard my neck break-it made a very scary cracking noise. As a result, my hat went spinning around but managed to hang on by my little pony tail, just dangling there. So while I stood there stunned waiting for the stars and tweety birds to disappear their circular parade around my head, I fought back my tears, I righted my hat, checked for blood (none--BONUS), sucked it up, kicked the god damn tarp and went back to whacking.  After that the novelty of all this olive bullshit was gone and it just felt like work.  Correction:  MANUAL LABOR. I thought asking to go home at that point would have been a bit gauche, seeing as how I was the youngest in the crowd. 

 It was pretty quiet most of the morning and we were all in our own little worlds just listening to the hum of the generator. As time went by, I amused myself with singing in my head and changing choice words of songs and movie quotes to something to do with olives. I wish I could remember what I sang to myself because I feel it was pretty damn funny, but the blow to the head might have limited my memory. We whacked some more and eventually we collected enough olives on one tarp, so it was time to put the little green bastards on the sorting table.

The sorting table was just that (nothing very Harry Potter-ish about it.  It didn’t talk and shout out GRYFFINDOR or anything like that), it just separated the olives from the big branches and most of leaves and set them loose to roll down the tilted expanse and finally ended up in the burlap sack.  At this point I start cracking up and all I can think of is Dr. Evil in Austin Powers during the group therapy scene, ”I had a normal childhood. Summers in Rangoon, luge lessons. In the spring we'd make meat helmets. If I was insolent, I was placed in a burlap bag and beaten with reeds.”  I guess these olives were insolent! This table will forever be my favorite part of the whole olive tree whacking process.  Why you ask? All that is needed for this is to move the olives around until they fall thru the holes in the sorter into the burlap sacks. Aside from a few pricks from stray branches, it was right up my my alley; and BONUS my hands had never been so soft and smooth.  I stood around that table like a buzzard watching road kill, whenever there were olives to sort, I was there. It was like, “Hey everyone!  Look at me!  Working soooo hard over here with the sorter.  Sorting olives.  Making the magic happen!”

More time passed and next thing I knew, Susie, my personal savior, announces the words that had been lingering on my lips for the past hour, “Is it beer:30 yet?” She was right , it was lunch and beer time. BTW, at some point she took over the spin-y thing, kicked ass with it, and did it the rest of the day- girl power!  As we enjoyed our break, we had a nice discussion about the cold rocky mountains and I made a couple of hilarious comments about the pitiful, tired little fire they tried to start from wet olive branches. I was told I was being “cheeky” - which I thought was the coolest thing ever!!! Me? Cheeky??? I never heard anyone say that word outside of a movie, a joke, or trying to be funny using a fake accent (“are you a cheeky bum looker??).  I beamed with pride that it was directed at me.

Fun and games over-- back to work. We power whacked (Susie), moved tarps (Lydia and Ruby), cut and collected branches (John), truly picked olives (Pete), sorted and bagged (me) and fire started (Dale) for 3 or so more hours until we were “finished”. We collected all the tarps, broken tools and left over branches for the fire.

 As we sat around the fire and had a few more beers, with the sun setting behind us, we talked about what a perfect day it had been for picking (it was a gorgeous day nestled in an otherwise crappy week). We looked over ourselves-- all filthy and sweaty with some olive picking battle scars (hurt neck/bruised head (me), hurt knee (poor Lydia), back aches and some scratches (everyone)), all the while feeling very proud of our olive prowess!

Our pride lasted just a few minutes when Lydia told us one man had done every tree in the orchard in one day...OUCH!  Full Disclosure: I think we finished less than 20 trees all day and there are about 50 total.

 So. Complicated?  No.  Dangerous?  You betcha! I don’t believe professional olive picking will be an option for any of us in the future, but I have a newfound appreciation for my olive oil and would like to remind all of you martini drinkers to raise a glass to celebrate the often underappreciated bad-ass olive pickers of this world! Yamas!

House Hunting Gone Wrong

A little background information first:

As some of you may or may not know, I have a very sweet, giving, caring man-child of a husband:

1.    He whistles and sings to his heart’s content anywhere and anytime he feels like it.

2.    He has this way of taking normal words and saying them in a crazy way (meece=mice, yellah=hello, nana=banana, etc).

3.    He almost always says inappropriate things at the most inappropriate times to make the inappropriate time, well, that much more inappropriate.

4.    He has the ability to give life, and a backstory, to the most inanimate objects.  And what’s worse, at the end of his little one-man show you would think that inanimate object is alive and well, has a wide range of feelings and emotions, and may even have a family of its own.  

Sometimes his funniest moments are purely an accident.  Catch my drift?!?

Most of the time, numbers 1, 2, 3, and 4 just embarrass me to no end, but he usually gets a round of laughs from others coupled with the “You are so not right!” routine. I am always left thinking, “What in the hell is wrong with you people?!? Don’t encourage him!!”

While this whole “thing” makes him a load of fun at parties, it only works in his favor with me about 50% of the time, and that usually coincides with times that I am on the verge of going 100% bat-shit crazy. He lives for these moments and references  “tragedy averted”; but just remember that it only works out about 50%, so he’s really playing the odds.

Here are a couple of examples: 

Example 1:  Our home in North Carolina…

Me (putting up blinds): Why the hell am I doing this?!?! You are the guy!! Why does this stupid screw driver suck so bad?!?! Can’t we just pay someone?!?! Why the hell are there so many windows!?!? I may kill myself doing this…just so you know!!!* 

Bat-shit crazy achieved!!!!

Kip (not really listening to me and looking at the million boxes of blinds): Huh? Hey, what is fox wood?

Me: What?

Kip: It says right here on the box… what are fox wood blinds?

Me (laughing my ass off): That says FAUX wood you fool, not fox!!  

Tragedy averted!!

*Side note: While putting up the blinds I did end up breaking my big toe and that Christmas I received a fancy new drill.  Plus, anything “faux” is now consistently pronounced “fox”!

Example 2: In our hotel in Crete…

After a good 30 minutes of figuring out how to change the TV from Greek to English, and then another complicated 15 minutes of rearranging the furniture, TV, and DVD player so both could be hooked-up and plugged-in at the same time…I FINALLY got it and was so happy!! All I wanted was to watch a movie on the damned TV. (BTW, the outlet placement in Greece makes no sense whatsoever to me). I pop in the DVD, sit back and relax, and…

WTF?!!!  Up on the screen pops a message I’ve never seen before.  What the hell does it mean that I am “in the wrong region”? What does that even mean? I get another movie… I am “in the wrong region.” I pull out the hotel’s info DVD provided for us tourists… Yep! It plays just fine. I stupidly put one of my movies back in.  The screen should have just read…

“Give it up!!  You’re not gonna be watching this today!!!”

So, I unplug the DVD player and SMACK IT!!! Yes. I smacked the crap out of it. Over and over again.

Bat-shit crazy reached!!!

I had a vision of me storming out and throwing the damned thing in the pool. Then Kip begins his monologue and politely tells me it is not the DVD player’s fault that it was born in the wrong region and all he (meaning the DVD player) really wants to do is entertain me.  He goes on and on bringing life and feeling to this stupid black box. At the end of his little speech, I laugh it off and almost feel bad for hitting the stupid thing.

Tragedy averted!!

So now, back to House Hunting...

When we first found out that we were moving to Crete, wonderful visions filled my mind. A little something like this:

I saw me waking up in the morning in my kick ass bedroom with white curtains blowing gently in the breeze. I’d go out on my kick ass balcony that overlooks the kick ass water to have a kick ass cup of coffee. Then I’d take Gibbs for a quick walk on the kick ass beach. I’d come back, make another cup of coffee, and sit out on the kick ass veranda and take in the scenery.  After the second coffee I would walk around the kick ass villa and think of something to fill my kick ass day. Maybe I’d go to the market and buy food for dinner, or go and take pictures, or sit by the pool and read a book all day. Who knows, but it’s plan-free and care-free!!! Sounds kick ass, right?   Well, my beautiful visions are now a distant memory.

Needless to say, the house hunting thus far has been less than perfect. With my perfect visions fading away day-by-day, so is my otherwise positive and perky attitude toward the hotel and everything Greek.

We have seen all types of houses and villas in the weeks since we’ve been here.  Places ranging from 3 bedrooms on up to 5 bedrooms. Some houses with lots of bathrooms and some with just one.  Some with a great view and some with an OK view.  Some with a pool and some without.  There are really no two houses alike here.  Hell, some aren’t even finished!!

One in particular was so pretty on the inside, but on the outside you wouldn’t even think someone lived there it looked so crummy.  Another one was so pretty on the outside and I wondered how anyone could actually live on the inside it was so disgusting. Then, we finally got to see a completely finished house with five bedrooms!! I walked in and thought YAY! Then I took one look at the bedrooms…

To call it a bedroom and not a closet is a demonstration of my giving nature, because my clothes wouldn’t even fit in there.  It didn’t take long to realize that Greeks build bedrooms and bathrooms to do the bare minimum. I’d say 90% of the bedrooms we have seen wouldn’t even fit our king-size bed. Some of the bathrooms… I bet even the smallest oompa lumpa would complain that it was too small. (Oompa Lumpa Doopity Do…Greece is a bad place to try and go poo!)

Finally, we did find a kick ass villa with all of the kick ass stuff I’d dreamed of!!  At last!!! I was so excited…until…

We found out we could probably rent the White House for less.  What the hell?!?! Don’t these people know their country is bankrupt? 

Bat-Shit Crazy is Building-Up and Starting to Rear Its Ugly Head!!

So just yesterday we set up another trip to go see a villa with amenities somewhat similar to “the White House”, but this one was at the right price!! I was so excited!! I had been eyeing this place online and was happy to learn that the owners agreed to start renting it long-term (it is primarily a weekly rental)!! Woo hoo!!!  And again…just like one of the million snails on the sidewalk…CRUSHED! First off, while it is in a beautiful place, with an unobstructed beach view, and a pool, in a complex of 3 villas with a shared tennis court… I am pretty sure the dog that lives next door is rabid and wants to eat Gibbs, me, Kip and possibly our DVD player. Thank God it was on a leash. Strike one. We walk inside the front door. I take three steps forward and I’m outside again on the back porch (Gee, thanks for the 2-second tour of the 1^st floor...it’s so spacious!!) Strike Two. I walk up to the top floor, which is the master bedroom and the shower is in the bedroom…exposed!!! Who the hell puts the tub (again, fit for an oompa lumpa) in the middle of the bedroom? Strike three.  After walking around a bit and checking out all three villas, I look at Kip and realize he is actually considering this place.

All I want to do is go back to the hotel, get in bed, and cry. After talks of “could they fix this and that”, we get back in the car and I start to curse the Greeks, Danes, and the English who all had a part in building this place (a little bit of history for you all), all the way down to the photographer who took the pictures to put on the website (can you say “wide-angle lens???”).  I then start to freak out over how messed up these places are and ask Kip if he saw the size of the oven. “Even if we were there for Thanksgiving, there is no way I would even be able to fit a turkey in that damned thing!!!” 

Bat-shit crazy in full-effect!!!

He thinks about this for a second and he realizes aloud that most of the places we have seen have tiny little ovens and then he asks me, “Well, how do all the Greeks cook their turkeys for Thanksgiving?”  

And just like that…

Tragedy Averted!!

Greek Superstitions

By now, I believe you have no doubt heard enough of the trials and tribulations that plagued our international travels to Greece.  And, by the way, thanks for reading and offering your support and laughs.  I guess if we can’t laugh about it, it would all just seem REALLY tragic.  Now that we are in Crete and settled into our temporary home at the Sissy Village (how fitting to have Gibbs living in a place called Sissy Village), I’d like to share some of the good stuff with you…

On one of our first mornings here, I was sitting out on our porch with Gibbs.  While I sipped my coffee and read a book, Gibbs was busy surveying the scenery and sniffing about.  Then our neighbor came over to visit and introduce himself.  He’s a pretty handsome fella that could give any Hollywood star a run for his money.  He starts talking to me and WHOA! WHOA!  I realize he’s said about 1,000 words in a span of about 3 seconds.  At first, I think maybe I’m still jet-lagged and I know I’ve lived in the South for a while and people tend to be more thoughtful about their words (a.k.a slow and steady), but this guy could’ve been a professional auctioneer!  What’s worse, even though I KNOW he is speaking English to me, I find it very hard to understand him.  We, I mean, HE talks for a few minutes and then starts to hone in on Gibbs and begins to ask questions about him.  I now realize Gibbs is the main reason he’s come over to “chat.”  Anyway, I notice a change in his inflection followed by a pause and realize he’s just asked me a question about our “British Bulldog” which makes me giggle as now I expect that if Gibbs could talk he’d sound like Prince Charles.  What also begins to capture my attention is that he ends almost every question with “mate”:

What’s your British Bulldog’s name, mate?  Where do you come from, mate?

I seems I have now met a very interesting ethnic combination of a man.  Half-Greek, Half-Australian!  This may be a common blend, but it’s my first, so don’t ruin the novelty for me!  And God as my witness, I will find a REAL Spartan before I leave here!!

So we chat a while longer and as he goes to leave, I start to say, “see you…” 

AND…

DID HE JUST SPIT ON MY DOG?!?!? 

Yep.  Spit-spit-spit!!! (or phonetically, I guess it sounds more like ftou-ftou-ftou!!!)

Just as my brain is processing this, he very quickly tells me (quickly in that he talks a mile a minute and also quickly in that he sees the “WTF?!?!” look of confusion on my face and realizes he needs to explain himself) that this is a Greek tradition to spit on someone to ward off evil and/or for good luck.  While I DEFINITELY could have used a little spit back in Norfolk before this whole adventure began, I feel like my luck has turned a little bit and let him know that I’m all stocked up on good luck at this time.  He laughs and I feel like I just found my first new friend in Crete!

After telling my sister, Natalie, about the saliva incident, she cracks up laughing and tells me that she’s seen that happen in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.  I can’t believe I never saw that movie—might have been a little helpful before moving here, so I ran out the next day and rented it just to see for myself.  While the movie is somewhat stereotypical, it’s definitely hilarious and now I feel like I’m starting to understand a little bit more about the Greeks, even though I’m still feeling like “It’s All Greek To Me!”  I just wish someone had warned me about how they feel about CROWS here before I arrived (more on that later).

I later come to find out that our half-Australian, half-Greek, spit-happy, fast talking mate is named Thomas.  He may have told me that on that first day out on the porch, but I definitely didn’t catch it!!  Since our first meeting, we’ve gotten to know him pretty well.  He too is living in Crete for work and his wife comes to visit on some weekends.  His wife is also incredibly sweet and nice though she has kind of an unfortunate name that doesn’t really suit her--Myrtle (which sounds nothing like that in Greek, btw). I guess that is her burden because otherwise she is the kind of girl with the kind of figure that makes other girls want to only order lettuce and a glass of water for lunch!!  After hanging out with Thomas a bit, Kip and I debated on what it is that Thomas does for a living.  All the scenarios we came up with were pretty bad-ass!!  In his super fast chat he dropped words like Tanzania, mate, Qatar, Embassy, Mercedes, mate, pilot, president, mate, King, Arabic, Qudafi, mate…. 

Get my drift?!?!?

While we have learned that he sadly is NOT our own, personal Jason Bourne, he is still pretty cool in our book for a number of reasons:

1.    He brings us lots of tasty desserts.

2.    He brings Gibbs his leftovers.  My dog is never going to want to leave here.

3.    He teaches us “bad words” in Greek.

4.    He wants to come to the US with us so he can eat in a “proper” diner and witness a bar fight (clearly he watches a lot of Hollywood movies and American TV shows).

5.    He said he likes us Americans.

6.    He calls me MATE!!

I now have the strong urge to start calling everyone “mate” after talking to him and continue to find myself intrigued.  I am still holding on to the dream that he still might end up being kinda, sorta Jason Bourne-ish.  A girl can dream, can’t she?!?!

Time has not helped the fast talking and I notice that my mind seems to work on some sort of delay when I’m talking to him (part of his Jason Bourne skills is brain control—I’m certain of it) and I can only seem to catch the important words in the conversation—thank God I’m at least able to do that so he doesn’t think I’m brain damaged or something.  And even though I’m still trying to understand what these Greeks are all about, I can’t help but love every second of it!

So, until next time… spit-spit-spit!!!

A few pictures from the "Worst trip I have ever been on"!

                                     Lajes AFB, Azores Portugal

                                                  Best Beer EVER

                                                 Azores, Portugal

                                               My Day at the Vet. Lisbon, Portugal

                                                  Drunk Dog

                                           Athens Airport (my phone died after this)

                                                Making the new place his!

Day Five: Still almost there

Here is where my mind and story get a little fuzzy. Time really has no more meaning for me at this point. I remember having a grilled chicken sandwich and french fries, but I do not remember when this was.  In fact, if you told me I hallucinated that, I’d take your word for it (watch the movie Insidious; a creature from the further may have taken over during this time). I know I slept a little longer, watched some TV in our room, and sporadically checked on Gibbs, who, BY THE WAY, is just loving this whole part of the trip!  It’s a pirate’s life for him!!  But all in all, I still have no recollection of time.

Sneeze.  Sniffle.
We find out we never left last night due to bad weather on the other side by Crete. Better safe than sorry is fine by me.  I don’t need this story turning into Castaway 2:  Wilson Returns! I do know we finally left the port around 8am.  I made a mental note that we left port because I immediately feel the ferry move!

My first thought is that it’s not so bad...

Then it’s bad, but I’m ok...

Then we are really moving and rocking and bouncing.  Things are crashing around me and I start to freak out a bit. Kip tries to calm my nerves by singing the Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald and I have a vivid and spontaneous vision of me throwing him overboard!!!

And then...Oh, yes... the moment you were waiting for…

You know that saying, right?  When the ferry boat’s a-rockin’...Alex is probably pukin’!!!!

THAR SHE BLOWS!!

I make a mad dash to the bathroom as the contents of my stomach come back to say hello.  I could almost swear I saw that sugar doughnut.  I continue to make friends with the toilet and proceed to have a very personal conversation with it for the next 30 min or so.
I make it out of the rocking bathroom (barely alive, I’m sure) and lie on the rocking bed and cry and cry and cry. I am now in the middle of having a wonderful little pity party for myself.

Achooo.
I suck it up (literally and figuratively) and decide I need to see the outside and move a little bit.  When all else fails...Beer can cure what ails you!

Sneeze Sneeze Sneeze.

I spend the next however many hours just wondering around in a slight daze.  Most of the ferry is now smelling like my previous foot problem (did everyone just fart at the same time?!!)...Where’s my Old Spice when I really need it?!?! I would’ve wiped it under my nose like Jodi Foster did with that Vick’s rub in Silence of the Lambs to ward off the smell before she examined that nasty dead body!  But anyway, I try very hard not to throw up every two seconds and pray to Zeus and his gang that we arrive soon. The smells and the rocking of the boat are almost proving too much for me to handle and now I can’t stop sneezing! Perfection!
I think I may have slept again and I know I ate, but that’s about it.

AND THEN………

Suddenly there is a change in the movement of the boat and we realize we are almost there. We are in the bay and I see a dock that is not in Athens.

WE CAN ACTUALLY SEE IT!! Crete at long last. It may have well been OZ!

As I am pulling up to one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen I want to pinch myself to make sure that

1. I am actually here with my little family intact.

2. That I actually get to spend the next few years of my life here.  

And with this I also made a promise to myself that I would not fly or ride this floating contraption any time soon. Do you see the irony in this? (Hint: Crete is an island) So stay safe everyone and you are more than welcome to come visit me here!

Needless to say, we are all here together and I couldn’t be happier.  Gibbs is acting like he is a Grecian Bulldog (might have to fashion him a toga) and is loving his new surroundings!  And as I type this story of mine, with my healthy and very much alive, snoring, and drooling bulldog on my lap, and a loving husband that sings a bit too much,  I know it was all very well worth it!!

Hope you enjoyed it! I am sure to have more stories soon ;)

Day 4: Almost There

Our plane lands in Athens at 5:15am and pulls up directly to the terminal!  This in and of itself feels like a huge triumph!  No walking, no trams or shuttles…right to the gate!  It's the least they could do.  Really!! I partly expected people to applaud my arrival.  Certainly, what I've been through to get here is one for the record books and headlines:
 

"AMERICAN WOMAN AND HER DOG PERFORM SUPERHUMAN FEATS IN TRAVEL TO GREECE"  

As I make my way to the luggage belt I am pleasantly surprised to see that my pup is already there and waiting for me.  At this point, he is again my puppy and back in my good graces.  He is still totally drugged up and sleeping peacefully, completely unaware of his last flight across southern Europe.

I am pretty giddy at this point because any time now my "knight in shining polo shirt" will be here to rescue me and, if he knows what's good for him, take over doggie duties for a bit!! Mama needs a break!!  We arranged that Kip would take the ferry over from Crete to Athens to get us from the airport and then we would all take the ferry back to Crete together.

I am now OFFICIALLY starving and purchase the biggest sugar doughnut I have ever had, and a nice, semi-cold diet coke—to wash it down. Breakfast of Champions.  Does a body good.  So far, Greek food is OK in my book.

Kip arrives around 8am and I am literally almost in tears when I see him!  A bit of relief, happiness, and delirium has taken over me.  My happiness is again short-lived when he informs me that we will have to stay at the airport until 5pm until we are allowed to board the ferry at 6pm.  This is when you know this is true love.  Lesser relationships would have ended right then and there.  Shouts of "how could you do this to me?!?!" would have been heard for miles.  But no, I give in and figure, at least we're all together in this now.

I try to eat again, but I am seriously too tired to chew.   Kip tells me about his past few days and they sound pretty bad too, but my travels beat his any day of the week and twice on Sunday.  I should have offered him a little Old Spice to toughen him up, just for good measure.
 We sit and wait and wait. Every now and again, I reach into the crate and touch Gibbs just to make sure he is in fact still breathing.  Thumbs up!  All good.  We have never seen him this calm, even when he's sleeping (oddly enough), and it is actually nice for a change!

After a few hours of continuing to stew in my own juices…a moment of clarity! HEY! I have my suitcase and clean clothes. Yippee!!!  I go to the ladies room to change.  I grab a fresh pair of jeans and...Oh My God?!?!  What is that smell?!?!   Did the sewage back up into the bathroom?!?!?  No...I just took off my shoes!!  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I never knew feet could take on such an odor!!  You’d have thought I walked across Europe in those shoes!! I went ahead and threw my socks in the trash and if it weren’t my only pair of sneakers they may have gone in the trash as well.  I give my socks a chance at redemption and toss my Old Spice into the trash as well.  Let stinky feet and old man musk fight it out!!  
Halfway through changing with pants undone standing in the wash closet with just a bra on, an unsuspecting gentleman, who was bringing his young daughter in to use the bathroom, opens the door and gets an eyeful. At this point it's all par for the course and all I can do is look back at him and just shrug my shoulders.

I return to my knight and his trusty sidekick and finally get the courage to ask the time (because somewhere during this trip I lost my favorite Swatch watch).  I'm waiting for him to tell me that it's actually earlier than when I arrived because time has started to go in reverse.  It wouldn't have really surprised me.  Instead, he informs me that it is 12:30pm.  Shoot me now. I feel like I've been in the airport so long I should be paying rent. But I am so thankful Kip is there because he makes me laugh for what seems like the first time in forever.

So as the day ticks on, I examine the bruises on my hurt leg, try unsuccessfully to sleep, blah blah blah… We decide before leaving to head to the ferry, we should wake Gibbs and take him out to do his business. I don't know what they gave him in Lisbon, but all those hours later and he still couldn't put on those flip flops (see day 3).  My boy is a lightweight!  Ha!

Fast forward to the ferry…

We make the ride through Athens to the port—I don't know where these people learn to drive— and TA-DA!!!! There she is… THE FERRY! Allure of The Seas she is not, but it'll do.  Finally, the last leg of this unbelievable voyage is here.

Time Awake: 34 hours give or take time changes   Food Intake: A bunch of crap
I don't know how this whole ferry thing works and Kip tells me he slept on a bench on his trip over.

WHAT?!?!?!

Oh, HEYLLL NO!

I was very sorry to hear that Kip had to do this but there was no way in hell I was sleeping on a bench.  And did I mention that the ferry ride is NINE HOURS LONG?!?!?  I want a bed and I want it now!!!  Kip wisely reads all this information from the look on my face and we upgrade to a sleeping room!!  We are shown to our cabin and Gibbs is taken to his holding cell on the Doggie Deck for the duration of the ride (no dogs allowed in the rooms). We were a bit nervous about how Gibbs would be, but he seemed to be doing better the moment we left the airport.  If he could have pissed on a plane or a pilot before he left for good measure, he might've. At this point the drugs he had were wearing off and he had some food and was almost back to normal minus the huffing and puffing (a large plus). My worries of him being brain damaged had faded away.

 I tell Kip I won’t be able to settle down until we leave because after what I have gone through to get this damn dog so far, I have a somewhat misguided feeling that someone might doggie snatch him…clearly, delirium has progressed to a full case of paranoia at this point.   Don’t ask, I can’t explain it.  I blame sleep deprivation!  Kip says, don't worry.  The boat departs PROMPTLY at 9pm and everything is OK.  One more hour and we'll be on our way.

I go to help Gibbs get situated and put down a blanket and some towels so the prince won't be cold (and you wonder why he thinks he's a human). I go back to the room and decide to take a shower. I tell Kip of my deodorant troubles and he very politely says “Ahhhh, I wondered why you smelled like my father”. Nice. We both take showers using only the liquid hand soap provided at the sink.

Unfortunately, after my shower I have to put the same old clothes back on.  (Today, I am still mad that I had to do this; ALLEGEDLY, Kip asked me a question about needing anything out of my luggage. ALLEGEDLY, my answer was no and Kip had our luggage stored for the duration of the ride.  Clearly, this question wasn't asked or I had taken a temporary leave of my faculties, otherwise, my answer definitely, certainly, totally, would have been a resounding HELL YES I want my luggage!)

I go back one last time to check on Gibbs before we depart.  At this point, there are two more dogs in other kennels.  I look at them and then to my dog and think “Wow!  What a spoiled ass bulldog you are with your water, bone and fuzzy blankets.  Boy, you don't know how good you've got it!”  I put my paranoia behind me and I go to bed.  It is now 9:15pm and we are to arrive in Crete by 5am.

I sleep. I sleep all the way until 3am.  My internal clock is all messed up.  I don't know what day or time my body thinks it is, but it's awake.  I get up and decide to check on Gibbs and get situated to leave the boat because we are almost there and I want off this boat and onto the land of the place that I'm actually supposed to be as soon as possible!

A few things go through my head while I make my way down to the doggie deck:
1…  Wow.  I am surprised how smooth this ride is.
2… Wow. I am so glad I didn’t get sea sick.

Earlier I had scraped my right index finger on Gibbs’ cage trying to fit the pin into lock it and now it was really hurting. This is the ferry cage (aka, CELL), not his crate from home. It is not a very complicated thing, but seeing as I’m totally out of sorts and my mind isn’t sending clear messages to the rest of my body, I struggled.  Plus, this pin had about 20 years of sea worthy rust.  I start to worry about when my last tetanus shot was. At this point, I have no idea what tetanus is or what it does to a person but I am very sure I now have it.  I contemplate tetanus all the way until I’ll find myself outside on the deck!

Ah, Fresh Air!!
I expect to scan the horizon to see if I can see land and I immediately realize we've already arrived!  My next thought is...

“Huh.  This place looks a lot like the port that we left last night.”

I head back to the room excited to tell Kip that we made it to port early. I find Kip is up and getting ready to get off the boat.  I then ask him the question that will seal our fate for the next 12 hours…

 “Is the port in Crete similar to the one in Athens???”

Puzzled by my question, he says no, then asks me why.

(This is where if this was a scary movie you'd insert the dramatic music that comes at the climax when you realize the killer is making calls from inside the house!!!)

I tell him, now very obviously, that all this time we've been aboard and we HAVEN'T… GONE…  ANYWHERE!!!

And did I just sneeze?