Summer Travel Trilogy Part II: The Two Towers

In the hopes of not being a complete disappointment to my childhood self, I'm trying to go to some of the places that captured my interest and imagination so much so that they destroyed my chances of having a normal social life. I'm running behind.

After the royal wedding (I'm kidding! Italy is a republic), Kelly and I caught a bus to Pompeii. I know your own fourth grade self is totally gagging out right now, but the city today is a bit rough, and it's not the volcano's fault. We hopped off Train Number Smells Like Urine from Napoli and schlepped our bags past cheap vendor stalls, several restaurants that won a fake best Italian food in Italy award, and casino with casinoey looking prostitutes before settling into Guesthouse VesuView, which did indeed have a view of the volcano just like every other structure in town. 

After a delightful breakfast, Kel put on her giant sun hat with elastic chin strap, and I wrapped my head in the scarf I once used to tourniquet my friend's arm after he walked through my glass sliding door. Therefore, we looked ready for that shit, as we entered the ruins for free because it's free the first Sunday of every month, and we are some lucky jerks who don't plan well. 

But we were not ready for that shit. 

More than 15,000 were thought to have perished in the 79 AD eruption of what they thought was just a pretty mountain, and we were walking through their ash preserved city with audio guides and sensible shoes. After hours, of teetering over wobbly streets laughing at women in heels and traipsing in and out of their temples, market places, bath houses, theaters, stadiums and homes, we decided we were too thirsty, hot and hungry to explore every inch though we wanted to. We ate some pizza in a nearby restaurant that claimed its food was not just for tourists and were treated very badly by the waitress. It felt so good to be back in Europe.

A couple of days later, we tackled the almighty Vesuvius. Today, the volcano is one-third of its original size because it destroyed most of itself like a stupid idiot erupting nearly 40 times (last one in 1944). It's still active, which makes me even more of a badass. Our bus guide explained that because of the surrounding population of 4,000,000, Vesuvius is one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world, and although they have an evacuation plan, they've never tried it. Good luck, guys.

At the foot, we loaded into gigantic Mercedes jeeps with shocks that made us feel like we were ridin' dirty.

The thing about adults is that we suck most of the time. The adults on that jeep were no exception because we tried to pretend that flying out of our seats while white knuckle gripping the headrest in front of us wasn't the greatest thing that has ever happened to us. The fiveish-year-old next to us in the very back row, however, was having none of that bullshit.

I have never heard laughter flowing out of a child with such abandon. She made it okay for us to shriek every time our vaginas were thrown into our necks until tears flowed down our faces. The best part was that we knew we had to come down the same way!

We fared well walking to the top from the drop off point fantasizing about installing an escalator or taking turns pushing each other up in the maintenance crew's wheelbarrow and rewarded our volcano conquering selves with a shot of lemon cello before walking the half circle perimeter at the edge of its mouth. What a view! Our hostel had nothing on this.

Our next stop was Napoli. You never need to go to Napoli. If you asked me to draw a picture of Robbery City, I would draw Napoli.

The only redeeming bit was the National Archaeological Museum. An archaeology museum. In Italy. Yes, always. It's there that all the real treasures of Pompeii are kept. Frescoes, columns, housewares and mosaics that depict everyday life, myths and legends impeccably crafted and fantastically preserved. It was a real honor to be among those works.

My favorite room was the sex art room with all the penises, though.

That's a penis with wings, lion's tail and feet with dingle bells hanging from it if you couldn't tell, and there's plenty more where that came from.

But not in Poland, which is where I went next...

Summer Travel Trilogy Part I: The Fellowship of the Ring

Here's a conversation that really happened when Jaime and I were visiting my family. "Ayve ye baught ye plaighn teighkets frahm Nahples to Barcelownah yit?"
Me, "No."
PMG, "Ye neighed tah geht em."
Me, "I know. Then we need to buy our tickets to Morocco. Oh, yeah, we're driving. We need to check the ferry prices. When do you want to go visit Sarah and Gino in France?"
Frieda (my brother's girlfriend), "You guys sound fancy."

She was right. I'm fancy. We're fancy. My life is fancy.

The first fancy thing I did because I could was to go to an Italian wedding. I had absolutely no right to be there because I knew neither the bride nor the groom. I highly recommend never going to another wedding again unless this is true for you.

One of the first things the bride said to me was, "I have a feeling it's going to be like My Big Fat Greek Wedding." I really liked her, though I was offended that she would get my hopes up like that...but she was right...she was right like 90°.

One of the duties involved in my very important wedding role as Stranger to Everyone was to get dressed and pick up the groom by ten o'clock. Get him to the church on time, so the poor sucker can't escape a miserable life of servitude. Game over! Am I, right?

We were extremely late. The American bride's family was like, "Oh my word! We need to go! We're so late!" Hahahahahaha. Americans.

Wedding. Beautiful. Loads of Italian people.

RECEPTION

You and I both know that the only reason to go to a wedding is the reception, but we're wrong because the only reason to even get out of bed is to go to an Italian wedding reception.

After following the bride and groom around the village taking pictures that I somehow managed to always be in the front and center of (who wears a bright orange dress to a classy wedding!?), we drove to the Bellagio. I don't really know what the Bellagio is, but it seemed like that's what it was. We're talking giant clams, things hanging from other things, wedding party table in the middle of a pool and not having to fill your own glass.

The appetizers, for some reason, came first. I had never in my life lost a battle to food before that day, but it kicked my bitch ass. I lost track after the fourth plate placed in front of me because I was so scared. Fortunately, the prosecco numbed my fear, and I was able to work through the pain and embarrassment of eating an insane amount of food at a table full of gastroenterologists. The fat went straight to my boobs, thank goodness, so I lugged them up the stairs and inside for dinner.

Lobster is a thing that you tell yourself you're going to order because you deserve it but chicken out at the last minute because of the price, so you don't even know if you really like it because you've never actually had it even though you claim it's one of your favorites.

  Shit!

The lobster and I pushed through the wall together, which was very fortunate because on the other side of the wall was a lot more food. Like at least five plates more. Like so much more that I couldn't even dance right, and I just love to dance so much but less than eating, so it was alright.

It was later when I was lying in a suspended bird's nest with a lot of people I'd just met that I realized I wasn't drunk.

I think it took about three and a half bottles of wine and that shot of limoncello I was using to play Never Have I Ever that finally made me think that not funny things were funny. All that glorious food had made me a walking sack of Wonder Bread (or the generic equivalent).

Nineteen hours after we had started celebrating the sanctity of marriage, we pulled into the groom's parents' house yearning for the sweet release of sleeping in a free bed. Instead, his father poured me a drink, his mother offered me some cannoli and his sister asked if I wanted to go find an open bar.

I'm so fancy! 

Why Does It Cost So Much to Fly to Kansas City (This Isn't About That)?

I don't mind airports because there's a chance I'll see a celebrity, and I get really excited when I see loved ones reunited. In the past couple of years, that excitement has come with a tinge of jealously because my "greatly disappointing lifestyle" doesn't permit me to see my family nearly as often as I'd like.

So, when I boarded the first of three flights that would take me from Barcelona to Kansas City, I knew I was in for a long 20 hours, but it'd all be worth it when I ran into my family's white and freckly arms.

Actually, the trouble began at the gate before I boarded because the blog gods follow me around to be sure nothing I do goes according to plan. My name was called immediately after I opened my book, and the nicest lady on Earth informed me that I was one of the luckiest lucksters to be chosen for a more thorough and "completely random" security check. I was escorted to a small room and sat down next to professional BMX rider Daniel Dhers! I couldn't believe my luck even though I'd just found out I was a luckster! Daniel Eff'n Dhers! How jealous are you right now?

I had no idea who he was either.

I guess I passed because they put me on the plane without my cell phone. Good luck with that shitty hunk of plastic, guys. I'm not a mula de drogas. I just look like one.

I opened my book just as they announced that something was wrong with the door, and we had to go back to the gate. I had one hour and a half to get through customs and no checked baggage. Daniel and I, I thought, would be fine.

Nine hours later, I was sprinting barefoot through the airport in Newark only to find my flight to Chicago was cancelled. No one seemed bothered by this except me. Why was no one bothered!?

I felt like Kerry at the special services desk would have a much easier time typing if her nails weren't made from reclaimed Liberace capes, but before I got up the nerve to tell her that, she found a flight that redirected me through Minneapolis. I shuttled to another terminal, and just as I opened my book something caught my peripheral. A damn pigeon was slithering its turd body out from under my seat. Sick.

We boarded, and I was in seat 1A (the only seat in the entire row) which meant the young gay flight attendant and I became quick besties. I rescued my book before he stowed it in a bin far, far away and opened it as the captain made the mechanical failure announcement. Bestie got my bag for me even though I was a little pissy as we deboarded the plane.

An eternity later, I sat down in the same 1A seat but on a different plane. A piece of ice fell on the cover of my book from the air vent above me, and I asked bestie if he had any blankets. I swear I don't know how he puts up with me.

I'd missed my flight to Kansas City by a long shot and was told to find Linda. Linda and I found each other but for different reasons.

"Hi. Are you Linda? I was told you could help me."
"I'm looking for a lost unaccompanied minor."
"I'm 28."

Linda brought me to a counter and informed me that there were no more flights to anywhere in the universe that night. I told her that I was pretty disappointed because I hadn't seen my family in over a year. That did it goddamnit. Never underestimate the frantic but productive compassion of a Midwestern divorcee and mother of two. I asked her if she thought the lost minor was okay, and she waved it away because she was pretty sure someone else had probably found him most likely.

After reenacting the entire plot of Taken and telling me about a girl from Belarus she'd helped earlier that was on her way to a sex trafficking ring, Linda hooked me up with an early morning flight, hotel room and $21 in meal vouchers. She wanted me to use them at the TGI Fridays at the hotel, so I could finally have myself an American meal. I promised her I would.

I contacted my family through the miracle of Facebook just as they were walking out the door to come pick me up then went to the hotel counter to check in.

"Uh-oh. This one's on the airline, isn't it?"
"Yep. I haven't seen my family in forever, but what's one more night, right?"
"Oh! You came back home for the 4th!"
"No. Can I use these at the IHOP, too, or just TGI Fridays?"
"Oh man. We keep telling them not to tell people they can use those here."
"Where can I use them?"
"Only at the airport. Sorry, hon."

Goddamnit, Linda!

I ate there anyway because I was starving but couldn't understand why the waitress was being so nice to me. She called me every name in the book: sweetie, honey, hon, babe, girly. It finally dawned on me that I was going to have to tip her! Yuck. It was okay, though, because the free water with free refills, giant portions and watching the Royals lose by a million points felt like America.

I cranked the air up and spread out in a star shape on the gigantic bed. The wake up call thing gave me a lot of anxiety, so I set the alarm, too. I was terrified that at 5 a.m. I was going to answer the phone in my sleep stupor with, "Babe! I swear to god if you don't stop touching my butt, I'm going to shove your butt up your butt!" Luckily, it was a recording.

I did not go shopping at the Mall of America like Linda had suggested as she was scheduling my 7 a.m. flight at 9 p.m. the night before and for the first and last time refused a continental breakfast because I had $21 dollars to spend at the airport.

I only managed to use two of them ($7 each), so I gave the last one to Lupita (I made up that name because I didn't ask her what her name was) who worked at the airport and looked like she could use a pick-me-up. I told her she had to use the full amount or she'd lose the difference, and as I walked away I turned to see she'd spent a total of $2.17 on a coffee.

Goddamit, Lupita!

The flight to Kansas City was almost entirely empty. I strewed my crap everywhere and started a crossword puzzle because I'd finished my book. Before I knew it and because I'm not very good at crossword puzzles, we started our descent. I looked out my window, and I kid you not, I began to cry! I cried like a big baby and really freaked the flight attendants out.

I tore out of the airplane and surprisingly wasn't tackled. The great thing about Kansas City "International" airport is that it's little, and you can see your loved ones the moment you come out of the thing. I ran into my mom's white and freckly arms and both of us noticed the chauffeur tearing up out of the corner of our own blurry eyes.

I guess he gets excited when he sees families reunited at airports, too.

One time I saw Al Sharpton at the airport, and I pointed right in his face
and said, "Dad! That's Al Sharpton!" And my dad said, "Yep." 

I Still Don't Have Any Problems; Someone Please Give Me Some Problems Because I Need Something to Write About

I thought I had a problem for a millisecond today.

During the millisecond, I turned into myself and said, "The world is full of problems, and you, myself, don't have nearly your fair share of them."

Oh my god you guys. I think I'm going to be as big as Dr. Maya Angelou.

Sleep tight, Maya Angelou. I loved you, and I liked your poems 

even though I didn't really read that many of them because I don't like poetry all that much.

British People Think They're Better Than Me And I Agree With Them

When I was a kid, the only thing I wanted more than British friends was Jewish friends (if you don't count Black friends). But this isn't about my Jewish or Black friends, this is about my British friends and how they speak. I even worked for a Jewish guy for ages which was a dream come true, but like I said, this is about my British friends.

One cool thing about my parents is that they really appreciate British humour, and they shoved that humour really far down our throats until we really appreciated it, too. I thought every British guy was like John Cleese or Eddie Izzard, and every woman was Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders or Queen Elizabeth II. 

However, now that I actually know a lot of British people, I can say that that is 100% accurate.  

My first real Brit was Kim whom I've lived with for over a year and a half. No one ever asked me to, but if I was to design my absolute perfect Brit, Kim would be her. Then ultra-British Eleanor moved in with us, and I lost the plot. Imagine it! Just imagine coming home to two flatmates who can't help but talk that way all the time.

I've got my other mates, of course, who greatly outnumber my American friends (thank god). They're always from a Somethingshire or Nottingham or a place with a university or a Somethingbury or other places that don't really exist. They pick at accents trying to tell where other Brits are from and cringe when someone's a chav. I still have no idea what the hell they're talking about, but truthfully, I can't be arsed nor bothered about it because I love all of them especially the chavvy ones.

This is my mate, Kelly's, actual voice. Her ACTUAL voice.

Aren't you just so chuffed by that!? Could it be more lush? Bloody hell.

When I started teaching, I had loads to learn because I teach British English. My first day, a kid asked me if I had a rubber, and I was like, "No, I don't have a rubber you eight-year-old pervert!" The little girl and I, through the ancient and beautiful art of charades, eventually figured out she was talking about an eraser. I didn't have one of those either.

I had to explain to my sixteen-year-old student who was about to go to the States to study that he'd better say math instead of maths if he didn't want to be crucified. He protested, but I was like, "Bu, bu, but. Shhhhhhhhhh."

I still get pissed and pissed confused, which really pisses me off especially when I'm pissed.

A car only has a boot when you haven't paid your parking tickets, football is not something I give shits about in any of its forms, and yes, I know it's wrong. I didn't name the damn sport. I'm not a fancy dress person! Why can't we just have costume parties on days that aren't Halloween like normal people!? Filling your tank with petrol at the garage makes you sound ridiculous and just say TV for Christ's sake!

That's what I want to say, but what I really do is change the way I speak because just like my father, I secretly think I am British. It drives my fellow American, Melissa, up the wall and rightfully so. I reckon that makes me the most annoying person on the planet. However, being obnoxious is the American way, and my British friends love me for it even though they claim we're all terrible and speak incorrectly. They're my favourite.

One time I asked Eleanor if British people wore black on July 4th,  

and she said "no" like she didn't even care!

The Day Fabian Was Sick

Fabian (read the post entitled An Ode to Fabian, My Greatest Failure if you don't know who the hell Fabian is) was really sick this week, and the poor fella lacked his usual fabulous energy. It was awesome!

Also, him being so ill was the absolute only reason he was allowed to get away with the remark, "I hate Jennifer Lopez. She is trying to be like a new Beyoncé." Man, that kid is a jive-ass turkey. 

I sat at the foot of his bed, propped his feet up on my lap and quite unfairly made him make a Venn Diagram about the two of us. Enjoy it.

                                       FABIAN                                             EMMA

Two other quotes worth mentioning from Wednesday are"Sophia Grace has a lot of chins," and "Did you watch Eurovision?" "No." "Well, the mowan won." "What's a mowan?" "A man-woman." "They're called transgenders." "Whatever."

I don't care about Eurovision.

Momma Always Said, "No Whiners."

I have a complicated relationship with nature in that I like the theory of it, but I'm not very good at it.

My adult life has mainly been spent in seas of concrete, human pee and far too many people whose only objective is to piss me off by not abiding the unspoken urban laws. Call me a romantic but I love it. 

However, sometimes I just need to see a tree that doesn't have a hippie attached to it by a slack line or nine million dog turds in the tiny square of dirt surrounding it, so I was thrilled to spend my spring break reconnecting with our mother, Earth. 

I eased into it with a day trip to some natural hot springs located in the French Pyrenees. I think you should reread that sentence. We drove for a few hours, got lost, asked for directions in Sprenchlish and finally parked the car at the top of a baby Pyrenee. The journey down wasn't exactly harrowing but we forded a stream, got kind of sweaty, got lost again, whined a bit and interrupted a beautiful woodland couple who directed us towards Heaven. Heaven is a series of warm waterfalls pooling then spilling into the next down a steep hill. We striped to our underwear and couldn't wait to join the other nature lovers in sharing our dirty body fluids in glorified cesspuddles. It was incredible. 

A couple of days later, I threw my pack on my back and whined all the way to the bus station because we were going camping! We hopped off the bus in Tossa de Mar and consulted an iPhone before beginning our hike to the site. I think our hike was a healthy mixture of awe, whining, excitement and getting lost (get it together Apple). We were starving by the time we got there, but we decided to set up camp first. It was then that I learned two things: I'm pretty useless, and I'd forgotten just about everything.

Next, we wandered around in a hypoglycemic daze whining and hunting for food. We whined past two restaurants that looked amazing but were closed until we finally arrived at a place that had mediocre over-priced pizza; it was the best mediocre pizza I've ever had. That night, we nestle into our tents and whispered sweet good nights.

The next morning, we woke whining and feeling like shit. Well, all of us who didn't have an awesome air mattress designed, made by and purchased by wimps (I'm looking at you Riri and FraFra) felt like shit. The rest of us couldn't wait to be wimps, too, and thankfully, the campground supermarket sold them.

We spent the next four dreamlike days at the beach, clamoring through the wilderness after Fra, playing celebrity guess it games, making Fra do everything, drinking tea, watching Fra swim, drinking wine, hating the other campers, telling scary stories, drinking beer, eating the barbecued food made by Fra, talking about how great we are and showering. But I'm pretty sure we spent the majority of our time at the campground supermarket. It was a fantastic supermarket.

The last morning it was raining and cold, and we could no longer pretend that we could totally live there forever as we'd declared several times. The whining was pretty profound as we squished the air out of our mattresses, wrestled our tents into the world's tiniest bags and dreaded airing out all of our wet equipment. We took a taxi in lieu of hiking back to the bus station to catch the earlier one. As we pulled into Barcelona, we all felt very happy to be home even though none of us can claim it as our hometown. Who cares? It's ours now.

These are the exact people I'd choose to spend a zombie apocalypse with.
Fra is not pictured but he, we agreed, is the only reason why we'd survive it.