First off, “A Taste of Greece” is an actual store that exists at the Athens airport, and I have been laughing at this fact for the past five years straight.
HOW COULD YOU NAME YOUR STORE THAT!?
Anyways, five years ago Marc and I were on our honeymoon, gallivanting about Athens and then all around the island of Crete – exploring ruins, drinking wine, eating olives, and sweating all the sweat that there was to be sweated.
It was incredible and we had one heck of a time.
Here are three of my favourite snaps from our adventures:
Is it just me, or are any of you itching for an excellent and exciting escapade in a fantastical foreign landscape? It’s been two weeks since my return from the land of palm trees and face-lifts, and while I very much enjoy my employment here on the West coast, (I actually really do love my job) I am already daydreaming about the next big trip Monsieur M. and I will take together.
Or small trip.
There is just something undeniably awesome about international travel and intrigue…
So pip pip, my passport is expiring at the end of March and I am putting together my application for a renewal.
Because everyone knows that a top spy-cum-adventurer needs two things at her disposal at all given times:
– valid passport
– excellent sense of humour and improvisation. (Okay, this might qualify as two things in some circles, so I beg of you to cut me some slack.)
A cute outfit, a quality camera and an ever present willingness to take on the unknown probably never hurt anyone either (in my experience at least.)
I’ve been surfing the internets quite a bit, researching all sorts of magnificent and mesmerizing locales – everything from Sweden to Salt Spring Island; Costa Rica to Colorado; Morocco to Montreal.
Seriously dudes, as much as I rail against the morally bankrupt ways of that ever elusive one percent (has anyone been able to find a contact number for them yet?), sometimes I can’t help imagining how lovely it would be to live with unlimited funds.
Sweet cash dollars would not only buy me many terrific trips, but countless beautiful shoes and a villa in the South of France.
(Lest you think me superficial, these are but other must-have accoutrements for said previously mentioned spy. Plus they’re pretty!!!)
This fantasy, however, always comes crashing to a (rather spectacular) halt once it veers into the territory of what I would actually have to do or condone in order to get that wealthy.
This knowledge alone would undoubtedly ruin all the splendor of that villa (and those shoes) and eventually turn me into some tragic pseudo-Lady MacBeth.
All in all, pretty darn grim.
And that is why I am happy sitting and planning out The Next Great Travel Thing! (Copyright Ethel the Dean, 2012).
In the meantime, let me share with you three snapshots of times past, spent in brilliant places, with beautiful people.
Someone once asked me: why do I love to travel? why do I need to travel? The following are just a part of the answer.
M and I travel to Oahu’s North Shore where we stay in a beautiful one-floor, many bedroom-ed beach house with five hilarious, and very accommodating friends.
We end up sleeping on the sofa bed in the main room and I fall asleep every night to the sound of the breaking surf, just steps away from our lanai, while our friendly neighbourhood gecko makes quick work of the few flies that made it past my feverish guarding of the patio bug screen.
We go swimming with sea turtles and sting rays, eat chunks of fresh pineapple and laugh as the juice trickles down our cheeks, tan ourselves brown (such a contrast to the white of the sand) and learn that Vancouver’s Starbucks obsession doesn’t hold a flame to the ABC stores in Waikiki.
On the third day of our visit, M asks me to accompany him on a sunset walk. There, on a beach, a few miles outside of the quaint seaside town of Haleiwa, with the sky the colour of one big Shirley temple, he asks me if I will spend the rest of my life with him.
I cry. And cry, and then I cry.
And then because he is just sitting there, looking at me, I tell him yes, of course yes.
I will until the end of the world.
M and I have been married for exactly one week.
We set out on our honeymoon, travelling to a place the two of us have only read about in books (he especially, and we’re not exactly talking about contemporary literature either. I mean, say what you want about the relevancy of Ovid, et. al. but we’re not exactly getting any younger here.)
The weather is excruciatingly hot, but we travel light, and from the moment we arrive it is as though we have been instilled with a boundless energy – so eager we are to explore and experience and indulge in the decadence of this dream-like world, that we walk until our legs our coated with a fine dust, our lips chapped dry.
An ancient city, a modern time.
During our time on Crete we visit King Minos’ home, pay homage to Theseus (and the Minotaur) and visit Matala, an ancient Roman graveyard.
Old spirits greeting newlyweds, teaching us the secrets to a long life, but longer lasting fame.
Christmas in Geneva. The streets are frosted white and the mercury dips lower, and lower with each passing night. The air here in the city is so much crisper, so much cleaner than that of Birmingham, our home for the past four months.
People look healthier hear. (People sound healthier too.)
There must be something said for chocolate and cheese.
(And I’ll be the first to say it.)
We stay with M’s cousin. The way she speaks French is a bit difficult to describe. It sounds almost as though she is singing. The tone and cadence so gentle yet lively – a quality particular to the Genevois people and I love it.
On our third day in the country we travel to Bern.
The beauty packed into the city’s old town is as striking, as it is astounding. The history of this place is breathtaking to behold, but the so is the cold, as it sneaks into my boots and down my coat and around my ears.
I munch on roasted chestnuts as M and I walk to Einstein’s old apartment.
We watch out for bears. But on this day, it seems there are none to be seen.
Holding hands, we catch snowflakes on our tongues and I whisper sweet French nothings into his ear.