La Serrenissima

What a luxury – Venice for a full five days! I had visited three times before, for only two nights each – just enough of a stay to get a feel for the city but not really experience its fabric. This time would be different.

Our arrival in Venice was from the Adriatic leaning on the railing over the bow of our cruise ship -- a breathtaking approach by sea in the early hours of dawn. The city slowly came to life as the Aegean Odyssey silently made its way through the outer islands all by its lonesome and then alongside the fishing boats, ferries, water taxis and vaporettos of the awakening city. Our lectures on the ship had taught us much about La Serenissima (the Most Serene Republic of Venice, its formal name) and we were anxious to explore its recesses beyond the madding, camera-toting crowds of St. Mark’s Square and the overrun Rialto Bridge. We had the luxury of strolling leisurely and absorbing the details of tranquil, deserted squares, the Jewish Quarter, the Public Gardens, far-flung streets and the glass-blowing island of Murano. We luxuriated in soaking in the Venice of our imaginations, the city locked in its glorious past, a place apart from the fast-paced, modern terra firma across the lagoon.

Venice has no classical foundation of its own – no Greek nor Roman antiquity of which to boast or on which to build. Its original settlers fled to the previously uninhabited marshy delta in the Adriatic lagoon to escape plundering Germanic and Hun invaders in the 6^th century. Thus, starting from scratch, the Venetians resorted to lifting the ancient treasures of others to establish their own bona fides. The new city arose from the wetlands and despite the fact that it fostered its very own personality and distinctiveness, believed that it was important to create the illusion of links to the beginnings of Christianity. In the 9^th century, the new democracy showed its chutzpah by managing to steal the bones of St. Mark from Egypt, thereby proclaiming its very own power and religious stature. Clever marauders, those Venetians...

The so-called canals of Venice are actually not canals at all. La Serenissima is a cluster of over 100 islets separated by fortified passages initially created by de-silting the dividing waterways to allow boats to pass. Each narrow channel evolved over the centuries as the individual islands developed in the muddy waters. Much like a puzzle whose pieces fit together but the resulting image makes little sense because a different artist painted each segment without consulting the others. The streets on one island don’t match up with those across the way and narrow alleys unexpectedly end at a canal with no means for crossing because the various islands worked independently. Comprehensive city planning was not a priority as Venice grew up which is why very few streets actually link together and the overall street pattern has neither rhyme nor reason. As Joe enjoyed reminding me, Venice tests even my normally pretty solid directional abilities.

Hotel rooms in Venice are always dear – it’s a question of limited supply and voracious demand on very tight real estate -- but during our stay they were exorbitant. Soon after our checking into our lovely little (overpriced) B&B just off St. Marks Square we learned the reason why: the Vogalonga (“the long row”) was in town. One of the world's largest and goofiest rowing regattas that invites participants to paddle just about anything that floats through the storied canals for 30 glorious (and I imagine grueling) kilometers, the Vogalonga is a one-day international celebration of “people of the oar.” The colorful event jams 6,000 rowers in 1,650 boats into some of the world’s most beautiful urban waterways. What was launched in 1975 to protest the burgeoning scourge of gas-powered boats whose wakes gnaw away at the city’s antique foundations has revived Venice’s long-held rowing tradition. Gondolas, kayaks, canoes, barges and rowboats of every description with flags of countless nationalities whipping from their sterns formed a colorful pageant as we watched from our vantage point along the Cannaregio Canal.

The hordes of summer visitors can temporarily swell the midday population of Venice to 120,000 twice its normal number of residents. The gelato-wielding crowds crawling the city’s narrow streets were so dense one morning that attempting to exit the tight alley of our B&B was like merging into the choked lanes of the Long Island Expressway. We had to jostle for an opening, jump out decisively and quickly join the flow. There were feral cats lurking all over Venice and all of them looked well fed and content. I suspect that most of the shopkeepers and restaurateurs helped support their presence since I’m sure they share my sentiment: better cats than rats.

We were having breakfast in our satin-walled, yellow brocaded, Italianate B&B and were enjoying the gondoliers crooning "Bésame Mucho" as they passed through the canal around the corner when the earthquake hit. Some minor rocking and rolling with windows jingling, sirens wailing and dogs barking alerted us to the temblor and we later learned that the deadly event centered in Emilia-Romagna had resulted in the deaths of several people. We checked in with our landlord to make sure all was okay and then continued on with the day. Our plans included aimlessly wandering the city followed by a heady dose of culture: a late afternoon visit to the Gallerie dell'Accademia art museum, an early dinner and a night at the opera. While neither of us is a devoted opera aficionado, I do enjoy occasionally hearing those with which I’m familiar. Joe, on the other hand, needed more than a little prodding to agree to attend Puccini’s La Bohème in the famous Venice Opera house, La Fenice. When I told him we could get partially obstructed nosebleed seats for just 25 euros, he acquiesced. He teased me all day about “making him go to the opera” and as the 7pm performance approached, ratcheted up his taunting to such a level that I just wanted the show to begin to silence him. We arrived in plenty of time only to find the square in front of the opera house filled with the buzz of disappointed ticket-holders; the show had been canceled due to earthquake damage inside. I stood incredulous with tears of disappointment clouding my eyes. But Joe, always the jokester and to poke fun at me even further, practically jumped in the air with a celebratory fist pump and an enthusiastic, "Yes!" Well, we didn’t get to see the opera at La Fenice, but we were safe and sound with yet more time to explore La Serenissima.  

Leaving Venice was like retreating from Disneyworld to the monochrome swamps of central Florida; we went from Technicolor to black and white in the blink of an eye. One minute we’re in a vaporetto cruising the Grand Canal, the world’s comeliest aquatic boulevard, past romantic salmon, apricot and tawny buildings adorned with flower-spilling window boxes and the next we’ve been disgorged onto the dusty, colorless Piazzale Roma, Venice’s unsightly transportation hub on the edge of town. We boarded a bus and before we knew it were being propelled along the causeway to the mainland. Land is not a premium on the other side of the lagoon and used car lots, dull office complexes and suburban housing projects predominated. On our way to Slovenia, we were back to reality having traded La Serrenisima for black-and-white suburban sprawl.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Ports of Call

Taking a cruise is sightseeing with a stopwatch. You swoop into a place, see as much as you can with the time allotted and then it’s back on board for yet another meal on the Marco Polo deck.

The Aegean Odyssey arrived on time in each new port with the reliability of a Swiss clock. But similar to the clichéd windshield tour, you dip your toe into the locality and then quickly pull it out because it’s time to go, never having had the opportunity to interact with the locals, explore aimlessly or enjoy down time at a cafe observing resident life pass by. We contributed little to the local economy other than the guide’s fee, the attraction entries and the purchase of an occasional postcard. We had our meals on the ship but made time during a rare free afternoon in Croatia to have lunch in Dubrovnik for a modicum of perfunctory conversation with the local cafe staff. For the bulk of our trip we’ve been immersed in local cultures and everyday goings-on, but for the ten days of the cruise, we lived on the ship, significantly diminishing our experience of a genuine sense of place.

However, there were worthy compensations like the recurrent breathtaking views each time the ship pulled away from the pier, followed by the thrill of seeing a new destination come into view. The pièce de resistance of traveling by ship, the need to unpack just once, is dampened somewhat by the realization that you have only a slice of a day in a beautiful, fascinating place in which you’d love to stay a week. Cruise-ship life is certainly less detail-laden than traveling by land and with many fewer unexpected problems, but the ease of it all can be just a little too antiseptic for me to do more than now-and-then. That sense of accomplishment – that frisson of I-did-it-all-by-myself -- enjoyed when traveling independently doesn’t make an appearance when you’re escorted from place to place. There’s definitely diminished adventure, but the unreserved relaxation was just what we needed for this particular week-and-a-half. Our independent travel thrills would once again make themselves felt before we knew it.

All misgivings about a floating expedition aside, the ship took us just where we wanted to go, no fuss no muss. Our ports of call were magical places, some of which I’d long wanted to visit and others I’d never even heard of.

•   Nafplio/Mycenae, Greece – A two-hour drive southwest of Athens, Nafplio is a pretty town on the Peloponnese Peninsula, crowned by a medieval fortress high on the hill. It is elegant and chic, graced with lovely Venetian and neoclassical mansions and its wharf is awash with classy cafés whose colorful cushions beckoned us to come in and if we’d had the time, would have made us want to stay. We walked up the 999 steps to the fortress and breathless, were rewarded with spectacular views across the Argolic Gulf. A short bus ride from Nafplio were the hilltop ruins of ancient Mycenae, an important center of Greek civilization in the second millennium BC and home to King Agamemnon, leader of the Greek Army in the Trojan War.

•   Olympia, Greece – We docked at Katakolon, a seaside village on the western shore of the Peloponnese and our gateway to Olympia. Spending a morning among the ruins in the verdant valley, communing with the spirits of the ancient Greeks who flocked there every four years for more than a millennium to celebrate the sacred games dedicated to Zeus was forever imagined and finally realized. A sanctuary for the games rather than a town, Olympia includes a stadium and hippodrome where the athletic contests were held (the marble starting and finishing blocks are still in place), the Palaestra, or wrestling school, and the Gymnasium (from the Greek for nude), where all competitors were obliged to train for at least a month. The complex was also a national shrine and thus included temples, altars and votive offerings for worshipping the gods. The most celebrated temple was that of Zeus, inside of which was a monumental statue of the father of all gods in ivory and gold. Next to Zeus’ Temple was the Heraeum, dedicated to Hera, his wife, which included the podium for the garlands prepared for the games’ victors. I lost myself in reverie, imagining the ancient games of physical glory; I could practically hear the cheers of the crowds and see the oiled, bronzed musculature of the athletes in action.

•   Monemvasia, Greece – Travel can reward you with delightful surprises and Monemvasia did just that. The village (whose name means “single entrance”), linked to the mainland by a short, narrow causeway, is located on a small peninsula on the southeastern tip of the Peloponnese at the base of a 650-foot high Gibraltar-like rock. The ruins of a medieval fortress look over the cobblestoned lanes lined by ochre-colored houses of the constricted, fortified town with its Byzantine churches, bougainvillea-covered squares and charming stone architecture cut into the rock cliff. Monemvasia enjoyed a long reign as a primary port through the Byzantine, Venetian and Ottoman empires (it was a regular stop for ships sailing between Constantinople and Venice), but is now simply a beautiful, rocky sliver of post-antiquity Greece. A switchbacked path took us by the ruins of churches, mosques and formerly grand buildings up to the forsaken fortress where we could look down on the town and out over the seemingly endless blue Aegean. I so wanted to stay in this place with its back to modernity and its face to the sea, for lunch and dinner and a night under glittery skies. When we found ourselves deep in the village’s maze, unsure of how to return to the town center, an open-hearted woman who spoke little English recognized our plight, led us under arches, up stairs and down alleys and pointed us in the right direction. Before letting us go, however, she invited us in to see her property of which she was clearly proud, a renovated monastery turned sophisticated boutique hotel. We will return to Monemvasia, I vowed then and there. The village was magnetic -- a place I won’t soon forget.

•   Ithaca, Greece – The island home of Odysseus and Penelope off the western coast of the Peloponnese and nestled next to Cephalonia, its bigger, more frequently visited neighbor, was green and lush with an inviting natural harbor at Vathy. But Aeolus, keeper of the winds, decided to flaunt his might, thus making it impossible for us to disembark via tender so the ship pulled anchor and we left soon thereafter. We disappointedly waived goodbye to Ithaca from the stern of the Aegean Odyssey, rationalizing that perhaps it’s sometimes good to leave a location with just a bit of longing.

·      Corfu, Greece – The first Greek island Joe and I ever set foot on in 1979 has some of the most beautiful coves and hidden inlets I’ve ever seen. The combination of green pines, blue waters and white cottages is simply, chromatically perfect. But on this brief cruise stop, we had a mere couple of hours to see one of the two fortresses and wander the rabbit warren of the island’s main town with no time to experience Kerkyra’s beautiful coastline. Much had changed in over thirty years with the town’s charming streets now overrun with tacky tourist shops all selling the same tchotchkes. The main square facing the old port on which we’d stayed in a cheap, walk-up hotel with sawdust pillows as backpackers had fallen into disrepair since most of the local activity had migrated around the headland to the chic Liston colonnade neighborhood. As we sailed away from Corfu, we held out hope that the rest of the island had remained as pristine as we’d remembered, untainted by massive cruise ship tourism. After five weeks in the land of Pericles, I was filled with a tristesse similar to what I’d felt when we’d left our dear friend, Italy. Waving farewell to Greece was like saying goodbye to yet another old friend; she had treated us so kindly and we would miss her warm embrace.

·      Butrint, Albania -- As we approached the Albanian port city of Sarandë, it was clear we were no longer in Kansas. Communist era apartment-block housing of stupefying ugliness and only half of which had been completed, looked like it could fall down tomorrow. The entire seaport needed a good coat of paint and a legion of street sweepers. But a few miles from the city via a rattletrap road that could shake your teeth loose lies the remarkable archeological site of Butrint, an ancient Greek city and then Roman colony surrounded by a lagoon. I had never before heard of this settlement in southwestern Albania, quite close to the Greek border, that was abandoned during the Middle Ages after it was overtaken by encroaching marshes. Perhaps the repository of ruins remained clandestine because for so long it was behind the iron curtain in dirt poor Albania and word did not get out about the lush archeological treasure hiding beneath soaring eucalyptus trees and home to throngs of singing frogs. Our lovely guide, Maria, was quite frank about her country’s economic difficulties and how far they have to go to get even close to neighboring Greece and Croatia in terms of exploiting tourism and attracting foreign investment. She was a kind soul with an industrious spirit and if a representative example of her country’s people, it bodes well for Albania making steady progress toward a better future.

·      Kotor Bay, Montenegro – Often referred to as Europe's southernmost fjord, the Bay of Kotor in southwestern Montenegro is a narrow, winding, waterway. Its shores have been inhabited since antiquity and host some well-preserved, picturesque, medieval towns. We cruised the bay for a deckside tour over the course of an afternoon and then headed back out to the Adriatic and north to Croatia.

·      Dubrovnik, Croatia – Noted as one of the ten best medieval walled cities in the world, Dubrovnik is a seaport gem tucked into the southeastern tip of Croatia. In its heyday, it was the only eastern Adriatic maritime power to rival Venice. After the breakup of Yugoslavia in the early 1990s, Serbian forces besieged the city for many months and much of the old town fell victim to ongoing shelling and sustained significant damage. Twenty years and millions of dollars later, much of the city has been rebuilt. To fully appreciate Dubrovnik’s beauty, it really must be seen from a rewarding walk along the two kilometers of the massive fortifications that surround it. From their vantage points, we were able to look down over the characteristic orange tiled roofs and get a good feel for the city with glimpses of daily life on rooftop terraces, in small walled gardens and behind private gates. Statues of Saint Blaize, patron saint of Dubrovnik (and throat maladies), adorn the city throughout as he holds a model of the city in his left hand for safekeeping.

•   Split and Trogir Island, Croatia – Roman Emperor Diocletian and native son of Croatia built his retirement palace in his hometown of Split, formerly a Greek colony and now the largest city along the Dalmatian Coast. The city takes its name from the plentiful yellow flowers of spiny broom that cover the surrounding countryside (spalatum, in Latin), which we witnessed on a side trip to Trogir Island, a walled town and harbor just to the west. Split’s medieval center actually developed inside the palace walls, thereby forming the core of the old town with its twisting tangle of streets. On one side of the fortifications along the bustling port is a broad harborside plaza filled with inviting restaurants and flowerbeds. Around the corner to the right are the fish merchants and in the opposite direction and around to the left is the sprawling green market. But these were not the art-directed arcades we’d visited in so many other cities with shiny fish on iced display with delicate lemon slices to adorn them and glossy fruits and vegetables in perfect piles. No, these were gritty, graphic bazaars -- unsentimental presentations in flat plastic containers of all manner of slimy sea creatures fresh from fishing nets and rods, some of them still moving, with blood oozing, fishhook tears gaping and smells overpowering. Away from the stench of the fish on the far side of the town walls, stall after stall of irregularly shaped vegetables in wooden crates that still bore the dirt of the fields and fruits that remained attached to their branches were offered by the callused hands of the farmers themselves. It was hard to imagine that these rudimentary presentations could eventually be transformed into the perfectly orchestrated food pageant we were headed back to on the ship.

·      Zadar, Croatia – Our final stop along the dramatic Croatian coastline was the fortified port of Zadar, the historical center of Dalmatia directly across the Adriatic from Venice. The marbled city streets where Roman ruins sit next to Byzantine churches are rich in history, art and architecture and as a university town, its center has a cosmopolitan vibe with lots of young people out and about. While still relatively undiscovered, Zadar appears to be doing a good job of luring visitors to her pleasures with attractive restaurants, trendy bars and a waterside promenade with a fascinating sea organ that turns movement of the wind and sea into intriguing harmonic sounds.

Our ports of call were scenic and historically significant, the excursions were enlightening and educational and what helped bring it all to life was one of the compelling attractions of traveling on the Aegean Odyssey. Insightful lectures by expert speakers on board complemented what we saw and learned on land. Speakers Chris Wood, a former art history professor at the University of Melbourne and Sir Michael Rose, a retired British Army General were fascinating educators and their knowledge of and enthusiasm for their subjects enhanced our trip immeasurably.

As our Adriatic cruise neared its end, we had mixed feelings about going ashore. Being on board had been a welcome break from bag-dragging exertion, the ship’s staff couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful and the itinerary was just what we’d hoped. It had turned out to be the perfect way to survey the Peloponnese and Adriatic. But while we’ll miss being aboard, it will be good to once again genuinely mingle with the people of the countries we visit and to once again be masters of our route. 

When my spirit lags and I’m feeling rather sentimental, I’m convinced that our year is simply a series of goodbyes: to places we’ve grown attached to, people we meet, our visiting children and countries we’ve come to love. But then I perk myself up and remember that there are new adventures and more possibilities yet to come. After all, Venice is our next port of call and we can stay there as long as we like. Walking down the gangway back into the real world and leaving the safety of the ship’s hull for the final time felt a bit like being dropped off at college after a respite at home. We were elated to be back on our own once again but already missed, just a bit, the rhythm and relative ease of life on board the Aegean Odyssey.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

Growing Old With Gusto

There’s growing old gracefully and then there’s growing old with gusto. I just love this quote by writer, Mark Frost, and God-willing and good health-permitting, hope to follow its contention: “Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body. But rather, to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming...Wow, what a ride.” I’ve met too many people who chide, “Act your age,” or who decide that growing old means sitting in a lounge chair watching others have fun and the world pass them by. I once met a woman who decided to chop off her long, beautiful, blond tresses because, “I’m too old for hair below my chin.” What? Who makes up these rules? Spending a full ten days at sea with the older set gave us ample time to observe and then envision how we’d like to spend our later years. It certainly won’t be sitting in a chair and if the spirit doesn’t move me, I’m not planning to cut my hair.

Most of our shipmates were continuing to embrace life, paying little attention to the fact that they were well into their 70s and 80s. Diminished physical capacity and the always-present aches pains of maturity, what my Dad says his Mexican grandmother called “Los achaques de edad,” are not easy. But studies have found that those over 65 are the happiest demographic and over and over our elders admit that one of their few regrets is that they wished they’d been less cautious and had risked more.

We tend to abhor aging, especially in the US (and do all we can to disguise it), when what we should actually be doing is welcoming the change and the freedom it affords. Rather than looking in a mirror wondering what happened to the taut muscles of our youth or trying to figure out how in the world we got so jiggly, our backs so stiff and our knees so creaky, we should concentrate on what else we want to learn and where else in the world we want to experience. Much easier said than done, of course, but we need to follow in the footsteps, literally and figuratively, of Angus from Toronto and Bob from Philadelphia.

We spent time speaking with Angus, his lilting Scottish accent belying any thought that he’d always lived in Canada and his khaki adventurer’s hat protecting his head, a former civil engineer cruising alone. He had lots to share about his travels and interests and Mary, the love of his life, whom he had lost to cancer when she was in her fifties. Angus had traveled all over the globe including to Antarctica the year before and he showed us some of the delicate watercolors he’d done of penguins and landscapes. His artwork was remarkable, but what was even more amazing was that he’d taken up painting just two years before. Now 91, Angus was an artist newbie who did absolutely beautiful work. Bob from Philadelphia, also traveling solo, was in our excursion group and at 86 had not yet tired of seeing the world (just like my Dad who at 84 travels significant distances every few weeks to see one of his 11 children and 26 grandchildren). This was Bob’s second cruise on the Aegean Odyssey and he’d already booked three more. He told us about how he had sold a successful restaurant in Provincetown on Cape Cod 30 years ago (“You wouldn’t believe how much they paid me for it,” he confessed, still incredulous) and had spent much of his windfall traveling ever since. No longer quite steady on his feet, Bob needed an assisting arm or firm grasp from a travel mate to go up and down the uneven stairs through the old towns and over the rock-strewn ancient ruins. There are few helpful handrails in Greece, Albania and Croatia, but Bob kept going like the Energizer Bunny, shuffling one foot in front of the other and always arriving on time.

There were only a handful of passengers (in addition to the aforementioned bitch-with-a-cane) who still, at their advanced age, hadn’t learned proper manners. After a heartfelt talk in the Ambassador Lounge about Venice by a British woman who had married an Italian and lived in the city with their three little girls, an older woman in the audience declared rather frostily and with obvious disappointment, “I had expected your talk to cover more about your daily life...” It hadn’t occurred to her that there might have been a better way to ask the young speaker to share the details of living day-to-day in Venice that might not have sounded so condescending.

There’s always something to learn from our elders but sometimes the tables can be turned. I did my best to school one elderly British gentleman on the benefits of the online world when he scolded me while I sat beside the pool with my Mac on my lap, tsk-tsk, to stop looking at my computer and just enjoy the trip. I drew a long breath and took a big bite of the shiny green apple I’d taken from the breakfast buffet before I responded. The cartoon thought bubble above my head read, “And you think I’m not enjoying myself because...?” I felt chastened and since I don’t like the feeling, I responded that I actually was enjoying myself and decided to follow up with some questions:

“Sir, are you reading books on board?”

“Oh yes,” he replied, “I’m reading several.”

“Well, I’m reading a really good memoir on my computer. Do you read the newspaper?” I asked.

“Of course,” he added, holding up the printed Guardian excerpts provided each morning in the ship’s library. “Do you?”

“Yes, but my newspaper is on my laptop,” and I showed him the article I was reading.

Pushing my luck, I then asked, “Have you written any postcards since we left Piraeus?”

“Yes, a few,” he admitted, “to my daughter and my grandson.”

“And I write notes to my children as well, almost every day, but I send them emails with pictures attached,” I shared.

And then he observed, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I saw you typing this morning in the Observation Lounge for an awfully long time. A long email?”

Clearly, my intimate relationship with my laptop and the time we spend together had piqued this man’s interest.

“I don’t mind at all,” I told him and then filled him in on our yearlong travels. “I’m writing a journal about our experiences and it’s all right here on my trusty computer.”

“I’ve always wished I’d kept a journal each time I travel, but I’m afraid I never have,” he confessed, rather wistfully.

We talked a bit more about traveling and as he packed up his things to head inside for tea, conceded, “I stand corrected. You appear to know just what you’re doing poolside.”

The next morning, he passed by me at breakfast with my computer open next to my muesli and yogurt on the table and with a quick wave and a wink declared, “Enjoy the headlines!”

I think I may have won him over. With gusto.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com

All Aboard

I’ve been married to a marine engineer for over 30 years.

When Joe talks about “going up ladders,” I know he means climbing the stairs, when he says, “starboard to,” I understand that the right side of our vehicle will be alongside the curb, if he suggests there’s something interesting portside,” I turn my head to the left and I’ve often heard myself say in times of desperation, “I need to go to the head.”

Joe has worked with ships ever since he graduated from the US Merchant Marine Academy in 1978, but I’ll admit that I never truly realized the depth of his love for these “engineering marvels,” as he calls them, until we landed on the Greek isles. The scores of photos he took of cruise ships, ferries, tankers and containers (but only rarely of the sleek sailboats, colorful dinghies or hard-working fishing boats we saw) in seafaring Greece, and the tender way he refers to a floating hulk as “she,” smiling in admiration at “her beautiful lines,” attests to his life-long fascination. He knows first-hand the complicated calculations that went into keeping these colossi afloat. We jumped on and off ferries every few days, including two for overnight journeys, over the course of our weeks in Greece. But now that we’ve boarded one of the hallowed white cruise vessels for a full ten days, I know we made the right decision since there is nothing that warms my heart more than seeing Joe transformed into a joyful little boy, happy in his surroundings and just itching to go into the engine room. A busman’s holiday for a marine engineer? Far from it. Joe was in ship heaven.

We’ve run out of superlatives to describe our trip but we’d better find some new ones fast now that we’re passengers on the Aegean Odyssey. It has been relaxing and rewarding, educational and enjoyable, invigorating and fulfilling and all at the same time. God is in the details, as they say, and on this ship, the god is Bacchus since very nice, quality wines were served and included in our fares. Every evening was an occasion and after we showered off the dust of the day accumulated at the ancient sites, we donned our best travel wear each night for dinner. Joe calls me his Bubba Gump of the black dress as I did my best to come up with new combinations of my layers: my long black dress with a black belt, without a belt, with a gold pashmina, with a purple scarf, with a long black sweater or with a short white one; my short black dress with black flats, with strappy brown sandals, with a white belt, with a brown belt and finally, with a silky black tee on top. I exhausted every combo possible and wondered if anyone other than Joe had noticed my minimalist wardrobe.

The cruise company is called Voyages to Antiquity and before we boarded we’d harbored a fear that it might be more appropriately called Voyages of the Antiquity. But while we were definitely on the younger side of the demographic (the average age was 68), there were several couples on board who were our juniors and many of the older crowd were quite young at heart. We met and got to know several of our fellow passengers, most of them British, Canadian, American and Australian – quite the Anglo crowd. As whenever groups of people find themselves together, there were very distinct types and once we gave them names, enjoyed watching them behave in character. I’m sure that others had their very own labels for us. And while I would love to imagine it was The Blond, Athletic Americans, it was more likely The Gap Year Americans in Their Hiking Boots or The Guy With The Wife Who Enjoys Her Wine.

There was Austin Powers, a perfect look-alike with big teeth, broad smile, black glasses, seventies hair and a twinkle in his eye; the Bulldog, his face in a permanent Grinch grimace, who finally smiled at me when I said a hearty good morning on the Lido Deck; the Betty Ford clone with a touch of Parkinson’s, who animatedly read the daily headlines to her husband each morning at breakfast; Miss Lonelyheart, a middle-aged British woman always by herself and looking terribly sad; and The Biker Canadians, who’d shared their stories of extended bicycle excursions in the American West. And then there was the nasty old woman with a constant scowl, wielding her black cane like a scepter as if to say, “Out of my way and don’t even try to mess with me.” On the second day of the cruise, we happened to be across from her on the tender heading back to the ship and once we arrived, she struggled to stand up. Joe kindly asked as he held out his hand in an offer of help, “Are you going to make it okay?” “Of course I’m going to make it,” she snapped back. “Let’s see how you do when you’re my age.” If her scowl hadn’t branded her, that response certainly did. From then on, she was simply “The Bitch.” There was no other way to describe her and time after time, for the rest of the trip, she lived up to her appropriately awarded label. I couldn't help but wonder what life had done to her to make her so bloody nasty. 


This was a British company, so of course there was The Bridge Set of 24 or so passengers, who spent most of their time in the Observation Lounge on the 9^th deck playing cards. The space doubled as an Internet point and so we spent many an hour sitting beside those with a passion for the game while reading the news and catching up with emails. We overheard the foreign language of the bridge players in the background as they spoke of actions by north and south, second hand low, playing a trick, frozen suits, auctions, giving away tricks and one note trumps. We discovered that many in the lounge had boarded the cruise for the sole purpose of playing bridge and to be with their leader, Mr. Bridge, a well-known master of the game who organized the tournament. Several were so absorbed that they never even left the ship over the course of the ten days. That’s awfully far to travel and a pretty big price to pay to just sit around a table and play cards ad infinitum.

While I absolutely love to fly and find airports exhilarating, they pale in comparison to the romance of a journey by sea. The constant smell of the salt air, the ship’s deep whistle when we leave port and the excitement each time a new destination comes into view as we pull into its harbor and drop anchor are intoxicating. I am indeed the devoted wife of a marine engineer and while my passion for all-things-ship may not quite reach the level of Joe’s, I have definitely joined him in ship heaven since we’ve been aboard.

Pictures of our adventures: http://gapyeargirlgoestoeurope.shutterfly.com