Athens Acropolis, Hair heaven and Parthenon views

Today we enjoyed breakfast on the Roof Garden once again with a perfect view of the Parthenon, and then squeezed into a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the Museum of the Acropolis. As we headed toward our destination, the driver asked whether we had advanced tickets, and when we said no, he laughed wholeheartedly and told us that, “ I woz juz theh and the people eeth waiting 2 to 3 hours to geh in. Iz 100 metres long the line.” He circled back to our hotel and suggested that I ask the concierge for advanced tickets while he waited in the car with my mom and the kids.

The Concierge desk was swarming with tourists, but luckily I spied the Starwood Preferred Guest sign and cozied up to it and the gentleman with the name badge, and asked if this is where I pick up advance tickets to the Museum. He looked at me a bit perplexed and asked me to wait a moment. He then walked over to the Concierge past the swarm of awaiting tourists and asked the Concierge a question, stopping to point at me; I waved and smiled trying to look both impatient and endearing at the same time. Immediately the Concierge made his way over to me and asked whether I had made a reservation. I did my best to look utterly perplexed, “Oh dear, I didn’t know we had to book a reservation, I was simply told that the Concierge had advanced tickets for collection.” This was in fact true, although I was told by the taxi driver and not some official Starwood source. “I’ve got the children in the taxi outside, might there be some way you could perhaps provide us with tickets? I am so sorry not to have gone about this the right way. Do you have the power to help me out?” Greek men clearly enjoy being as powerful as Zeus, and that last question seemed to have subtly threatened his masculinity. The Concierge asked me to wait just a moment and walked back to his booth. He then returned with 5 tickets in hand and explained that he would give these to me even though they were reserved for another group (his power being awesome) that were coming in the afternoon, and that he would send a driver to pick up new tickets for them so that I could go now. Well you can imagine my delight, I took the tickets, thanked the Concierge profusely and shook his hand which contained a neatly folded 10 Euro note in it for him. I once again left the hotel and hopped into the taxi where my mother and the kids cheered at my small but important victory. The driver deposited us at the Museum, and on top of the taxi fare I gave him an extra 10 Euros as well. He looked down at the generous tip and said, “I wait for you fiftzeen minute, iz noh mutch teep but iz okay. Endzoy!” I had been insulted in a most jocular fashion for being cheap by our taxi driver, hmmphh. And with that we exited the taxi, sauntered leisurely past the 100 metre long tourist queue waiting to purchase tickets and entered the velvet rope enclosed Advanced Ticket line feeling like VIPs.

That afternoon as I was strolling through the chic shopping district behind the hotel, I found an adorable pair of orange Chloe moccasins and happened upon a contemporary professional hair salon. The stylists in the salon were all dressed in Armani-like black uniforms and had beautiful hair in every shade imaginable, and very natural-looking, although clearly not. I pushed the glass doors open and was met by a rush of floral scented hair products and air conditioning. The floors were crisp white tiles that shone under the artificial lighting like flat square pearls, there was not a hair to be seen on the floor. It had been over a month since my experience in Tel Aviv with Reuven the Hassidic hairdresser and I was in need of a touch up. The Armani clad women approached me all smiling and welcoming. I explained my need with the use of much gesturing for emphasis, as there was limited understanding of English, and then one of the stylist’s stepped forward to translate. Yes they could take me now, yes they could do a touch up and it would only cost 25-35 Euros. Delighted I said yes, and was led upstairs to the head colorist. Unlike Reuven, she had no religious garb on but only the black Armani-esque uniform. She had me sit in one of the reclining chairs near the wash basin and then reclined the chair hydraulically so that I was tilted backward. Then a footrest jutted out from the chair upon which I could rest my legs, then the chair began to massage my back. I had to suppress a squeal of joy. We weren’t at the Beauty Place any more toto. We were in hair heaven. (see pics)

After the colorist had applied the blondifying mixture to my head and I had been offered a variety of beverages, my translator appeared looking a bit sullen. She explained to me that when I had said touch-up they had misunderstood and quoted me a price for a different kind of treatment. Now that the colorist had applied her mixture they realized that the service I was enjoying was in fact a different one and would cost 56 Euros without a blow dry, and would that be okay with me? Not having been born that same day, I realized that I had been swindled. Yet, with my neck and shoulders being chair massaged sipping on my cappucino, and a quick calculation of the new price still being significantly cheaper than the same treatment at home, I agreed without contempt. Of course after my hair had been washed by the shampoo girl (who I might add gives a most excellent scalp massage), I absolutely refused the blow dry and left with damp but lovely hair.

As I exited I came upon a beautiful sweet shop that sells homemade French Macarron cookies. The sales associate had a thyroid condition which renders her able to eat all she wants and never gain an ounce, while her poor sister, the pastry chef, has the opposite thyroid condition and cannot eat her treats without becoming obese. Life is not fair. The cookies were marvelous though and as we chatted about the effects of sugar on ones figure and the wonders of Angelina’s in Paris, I helped myself to several of the free samples and ultimately bought a boxful for everyone to enjoy after dinner. I bid adieu to my hyperthyroid hostess, vowing to return with my children later in the evening.

We dined on the roof terrace for the last time, for tomorrow Chloe heads back home, Justin and my Mom head to Canada for a week, and Livvy and I head to the Culinary Institute of America for a mother-daughter cooking course. We reminisced about the amazing trip we’ve been on over the past 2 months from Chloe’s Frenchies in Bodrum to Avi and his micro fiber capris in Israel, and enjoyed the wonderful sunset over the Acropolis.

Santorini cruising, sunset dinner in Oia, Athens grande luxe

After the underwhelming success of the volcanic beach visit and our encounter with Bay Watch Santorini, David booked us the following day on a private catamaran cruise of the island. We had an amazing day with our Aussie captain and New Zealand crew, returning to shore in time to drive over to Oia for a sunset dinner (see pics).

En route to the restaurant through the pedestrian terraced stairs, the kids were treated to a typical Santorini sight; an inebriated (presumably British) tourist passing out and falling off his seated perch like a tweety bird, and crashing down onto the cement level below with a dull thud. The surrounding masses of tourists all elbowing in for a better view of the magnificent sunset barely took notice. The man closest to him did appear to stop just to confirm the man was breathing before taking his place on the stoop. The unfortunate unconscious fellow did not appear to register any pain whatsoever, which Justin found quite odd, and so I had to spend the next 15 minutes explaining the numbing effects of heavy drinking, as well as the inevitable and far more painful process of sobering up after a nasty drunken accident. For no part of this explanation did I employ personal anecdotes.

The next morning a very sad David left for the airport all alone, as his holiday had come to an end. We will miss him a ton, especially his enthusiastic appreciation for every sunset, his undying love of tzatziki, and his willingness to accompany us through every shopping spree. We will miss his driving somewhat less.

The rest of the gang flew to Athens and checked into the sumptuous Grande Bretagne Hotel, which can be best summed up in Livvy’s words, “When there are little chocolates on the pillows and fluffy slippers by the bed, it’s always a good sign! There’s even one of those little white mats by each side of the bed so you don’t need to even step on the carpet, classy I tell ya class-y.” Justin is fully approving of the bath products and has instructed me to put all unused bath products at the end of each day in a laundry bag which he will collect. I have reminded him of the weight limit for baggage on the flight home but he assures me he has taken that into account and if there is a penalty to be paid it will come out of his budget as the penalty will cost less than what he believes he can sell the products for back home. He has already inquired as to the cost of a license for the Sunday Farmers Market, and believes $5 a bottle or 2 for $8 would be a fair price. These instructions have had a rather dire impact on me, as I know find myself using miserly amounts of showergel in order to maximize my deliveries to Justin each day. A sort of odd luxury bath product Pavlovian response I suppose. I must even confess to having taken more than a few wanton glances at the maid cart as I pass by the hallway, and must sternly tell myself not to swipe extra bottles off the cart.

The hotel boasts the most astounding view from the roof garden restaurant. We enjoyed dinner as well as breakfast the following morning at this open air roof garden restaurant which has an astonishingly beautiful view of the Parthenon atop the Acropolis. With David no longer on the trip, it has fallen to my mother to call out the beauty of the view at regular intervals.

Our Athens guide and driver met us at the hotel shortly after breakfast, and introduced themselves brightly. Niko is the name of our driver and Evgen-something else no one quite caught is our guide. I asked politely if she could repeat her name, which she gladly did and at that point I thought I heard Evgeniphelpipoliosa, but could not be sure. Somewhat stymied by the unknown name of our guide, and far too polite to request a repeat repetition, the kids and I decide to make due and invent numerous clever tricks to pose questions without it being apparent that we still had absolutely no idea what our guide’s name actually was. My strategy was to simply call out her first syllable loudly and with confidence, “Evgen,” and then mumbled the rest of her name quickly, and this seemed to work quite well. My mother on the other hand opted for a more assertive approach and fearlessly mangled her name in various different ways all day long. Fortunately Evgen-iphelpipoliosa didn’t seem to mind in the least and was a fabulous tour guide. She did have a rather odd sense of fashion and sported a revealing turquoise halter mini-dress with a white undershirt and pocahontas moccasin-booties whose fringes jingled as she walked like a Greek Sacajawea guiding us through the Acropolis.

We toured the Acropolis, which the kids will proudly tell you is the name of the hill upon which the Parthenon sits. It was hot and so we bought plenty of bottled water which the kids tried to later employ in a makeshift photo shoot in front of Poseidon's temple, where Justin was posing as Poseidon, and Chloe tossed water at him from beyond the camera’s view in an attempt to make it appear as though Justin/Poseidon had summoned water from the skies. Unfortunately Chloe had not taken the wind into account and was standing down wind, thereby ending up soaked on the first attempt while Justin remained bone dry. (see pics)

We then visited the Olympic Stadium from the 1896 Olympics which is the only stadium in the world made all out of marble. We visited the Temple of Zeus, caught the view of Athens from the highest hilltop peak, and enjoyed numerous other sites from the comfort of Niko’s van. We returned to the hotel and were treated to high tea in the Winter Garden, which the kids were delighted to see is open in summer.

We then grabbed our swim suits and headed for the outdoor pool. Justin and Livvy were unimpressed by the rather small, by Four Seasons Istanbul standards, pool. They decided to make for the indoor pool and spa, and delighted in the scented waterfall showers where you push a button to get a soapy spray of your favorite scent. Justin enjoyed “Tropical” the best, although he did give them all a try. There were no complimentary nuts, however, much to Livvy’s chagrin.

We walked to the Plaka, the oldest and chicest neighborhood in Athens, and bought some souvenirs. The kids reveled in watching their grandmother haggle with a street vendor selling imitation Louis Vuitton wallets. First dear reader, please be reminded that my mother is French and can speak with a very special tone that effortlessly conveys pure disgust. In short, her approach is to handle the merchandise gruffly, articulate a few chosen disapproving grunts and then toss the goods in disgust at the merchant before picking up another. After adequately disabusing the street vendor of any notion that may have had him believing he was dealing with an inexperienced mark, she then demands the price and without hesitation offers exactly half while simultaneously walking away in the direction of the next street vendor. Invariably the street vendor chases her down and agrees to her price, whereupon the deal is consummated and she walks away victorious, although she does not allow herself to smile at all as she wishes the vendor to feel as though she believes that in fact she overpaid. This last part is meant purely to preserve what little pride the street vendor has remaining. This is a tried and true method passed down from my grandmother to my mother and which I firmly believe Justin will adopt. I cannot pull this off as my love of a bargain brings me just too much joy to enable me to suppress a smile or hug, if the personal hygiene of the vendor is not in question.

And so we walked back to the hotel for a cozy night's sleep in our cushy beds where the foot mats and pillow chocolates were awaiting.

Santorini Baywatch the Reality Show...

I neglected to mention in my last post that we were only able to secure 4 tickets on the morning flight from Mykonos to Santorini and 2 in the evening, so Olivia and my mom stayed behind to catch the evening plane. Meanwhile David, Chloe, Justin and I settled into our new hotel where David and I had the Honeymoon Suite. We could not detect any reason why our room would be called the Honeymoon Suite as there were exactly zero discernable amenities which one would expect to find in an actual Honeymoon Suite. There was, however, a door separating the bedroom, which was quite literally a room just large enough to contain the bed, from a small area containing a loveseat and a built-in desk. I can only surmise that either: a) we had been duped into paying a heavy premium for the room with the fancy name; or b) the presence of a door separating a room with a bed from an area with a loveseat is referred to in Greek as a Honeymoon. We prefer to think it is the latter. Justin was unimpressed by the private label bath products, delighted by the complimentary mini-bar beverages, and approving of the “chic” hotel décor. Most of the furniture is from Design Within Reach and my friend André would approve entirely of the choices. (see pics)
We were soon reunited with Livvy and my mother, and had a hug fest in the hotel lobby. 8 hours can feel like a lifetime.
The next morning we headed out to one of the volcanic sand beaches and successfully warded off the myriads of Thai masseurs and masseuses aggressively proffering their services. Mom went for a swim and cut her knee on a rock as she was returning to shore. She emerged with some difficulty from the sea and before I could see what had happened, a stout orange bikini-clad male lifeguard was jogging to her rescue. It was like watching a scene from a Baywatch episode that had been gravely miscast. The Greek Hasselhof was quite short with squat legs, and so his jogging was really no more than a quick giggling saunter but quite low to the ground. Although his physique was nothing Germany would love, his deeply concerned gaze was worthy of national cable television. He helped my mother over to his lifeguard tower with much pomp and circumstance, thereby intentionally attracting the attention of onlookers from all over his beach. “Yes,” his gaze seemed to say, “I am zee David Hasselhof of Santorini, and in my tzexy oh-range bee-kini I am tzaving this poor ehwoman frohm a cutz knee. Do noh woorry my frienthz, you are all tzafe undehrr my whatz.” He seated her on a chair while he produced some anti-biotic spray, gauze and iodine which he generously applied to her knee while bending forward so that we could all appreciate his impossibly enormous hamstrings and large bikini clad backside. Unable to resist, David grabbed the camera with the speed of a wild life photographer and headed over to capture the sight on film. Although we were unable to get a full head to toe frontal shot of our Grecian Baywatch star, our Grecian lifeguard proudly posed for some photos with the victim he’d rescued, and David did get some shots that are praise worthy.
Over a sunset dinner that evening the kids killed themselves laughing as we re-enacted the rescue over and over again.