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.

Mykonos driving drama, mom's secret crush revealed

We arrived in Mykonos and were met by our handsome driver who loaded our luggage and took us to the hotel, the Relais et Chateau Mykonian Ambassador. Set on the hill overlooking the azur water, the hotel is truly a boutique luxury hotel. The hotels white walls, earth tone décor (accented by a hint of aquamarine in the oversized planters scattered about the hallways), sets the tone; welcome, you are hip, now relax. Justin was delighted with the Molton Brown bath products and David with the astounding view and Jacuzzi on our upgraded room terrace. The managing director, Yvangelis, became my fast friend and made my mother blush, “If I were a bit younger,” she said, “I could really go for him.” We arranged for a car rental and the next morning headed out to one of the island’s beautiful beaches.

We climbed into the lime green Renault 6 passenger van, and David took the wheel. All seemed to be going well until we reached the steep pitch of road from our hotel leading to the main road. It was at this point that everything seemed to go into slow motion. The car began to stutter as we neared the top and Dave pressed on the gas harder but this sent the wheels spinning wildly. Suddenly a car appeared in the opposite direction destined to make the narrow road impassable. Then, we began backsliding down the hill and fishtailing so that the car was in imminent danger of crashing into the high stone walls guardrailing the road. David managed to engage the emergency brake as everyone in the car looked on in silent horror. I only hoped we’d paid with my Amex card so that we would be covered for liability. Horns began honking at us from all directions as we had stopped traffic on the road as well as on the main road, where cars travelling in both directions were now unable to turn down. David tried to get the car to climb the hill but it was in vain and we backslid further, wedging ourselves sideways and blocking all traffic.

Then, as if sent by an angel, a Greek man appeared and opened the driver side door. David got out and our savior got in. I cannot remember his face, but his steady hands on the wheel and gear shift are indelibly printed in my mind. He shut the air conditioner off in order to hear the engine sounds more clearly (we were in fact stalled) and then he quickly and quite easily (sorry David) got the van to crest the hill and freed up the road. He put the van into park, and exited with a smile. Hardly his first time dealing with incompetent tourist driving I think. A slightly rattled David re-entered the vehicle and we drove in silence for some time, fully aware of just how narrow our escape had been.

We enjoyed the day at the beach and returned to the hotel around 5pm. The hotel manager welcomed us back and inquired as to whether the rental car was okay. We told him that the car was fine. He motioned for us to wait as he quickly dialed the telephone and addressed someone in Greek, and then still with the phone to his ear he probed further, asking whether the car had “crathed”. It took me a moment to understand what he was asking, what was “crathed” and why would we do it in a rental car. Then it hit me, “No,” we replied “the car did not crash.” This surprised him but he spoke into the phone and then told us that the rental car company had called concerned for our wellbeing and that of the rental car. They had received a call from someone informing them that some Americans had been seen “crathing” the car on the ascent out of the hotel road earlier that day. Indignantly we assured him that the car had not “crathed” although we admitted, reluctantly, that it may have stalled a bit. Again he spoke into the receiver and then said, “Tso you don’t want to repletz the car?” No, we insisted, the car was fine and we would keep it. We headed for the elevator somewhat ashamed that our minor driving fiasco had made headline news on the island and that now much of, if not the entire island, was of the belief that we, not even real Americans as we only hold green cards except for Chloe who actually is an American, had “crathed” our rental car.

David continues to insist that the car tires are bald, and since I am none too keen to drive here myself, I am not about to contradict him. I did however point out gently that we may have backslid because the car had stalled.

We went into town to watch the sunset by the 4 large windmills on the West end of the port. David navigated the treacherous hill with only 1 stall and a slight back slide but with good use of the emergency brake, we made it to the top without need for assistance. We all cheered loudly for him. The sunset was beautiful and as the orange fire ball disappeared at the edge of the horizon, the hundred or so onlookers erupted into spontaneous applause. We enjoyed souvlaki and tzatziki at Niko’s Taverna which Yvangelis had recommended, and then explored the winding pedestrian streets lined with shops. Livvy bought a green beaded cuff and spent the rest of the night admiring her wrist.

Victorious return to Istanbul, sex education by the pool, running in airports

I awoke at the crack of dawn and jubilantly packed my bags as this was the morning we were at long last leaving Club Marmara and returning to the Four Seasons in Istanbul. We passed the hoards of Nescafé drinkers smoking their morning cigarettes as we ascended the road to reception where our escape vehicle was awaiting. We caught our flight and were met at baggage claim by our very handsome and slate grey suited Greeter from the hotel. I’d made it! Safely tucked into our private shuttle bus, a cold bottle of spring water in hand, I exhaled and smiled as I patted the clean fabric of the bus seat beneath me.

In no time, we were back in the exact same luxurious hotel rooms we had occupied the week prior, but this time with new baseball caps and Harry Potter bedding for Livvy, remarkably appropriate as the new Harry Potter film had just opened in cinemas that weekend. After the Club Marmara ordeal, this attention to detail made me weak in the knees. We lounged by the outdoor pool, where Justin and Livvy soon began cracking up and Livvy insisted I come look at the “old man and young girlfriend dry humping on the lounge chair by the deep end”. On the flight over the Atlantic they had watched the film "He's Just Not That Into You", and picked up the term "dry humping" which they now employed entirely appropriately, as in fact he was old, she was not, and they were dry humping in broad daylight. Justin rolled his eyes and said, “I mean come on, get a room.” Indeed.

Unable to resist the temptation to inspect the scene more closely, Justin swam ever nearer and soon returned to me aghast. “They speak English Mom, English, how can that be?!!” Apparently Justin believed that only non-English speakers could engage in such lewd behavior. We explained that poor taste in matters of a sexual nature was by no means limited to non-English speakers. To substantiate our claim, a short explanation of how English girls were reputed to be the “easiest” during David’s backpacking days ensued, as well as a brief discussion of the relatively more chaste nature of the girls from predominantly Catholic countries. The impact of religion on morality for young women seemed to make sense to Justin and he nodded in understanding.

We swam until our fingers were pruny and wrinkled and then headed out to House Café for a lovely dinner overlooking the water. (see pics)

The next morning we were treated to the sumptuous hotel breakfast, which included real brewed coffee, juice made from actual oranges, linen napkins and no smoking permitted. I thought I might cry. Then it was off to the Dolmabace Palace for a quick tour of the impressive former home of the latter day Sultans. The grand reception hall was quite literally as big as our home. Of course we did not agree with all the décor choices and felt the 24 tons of gold that had been used in the construction was a bit excessive. We did however spy numerous gold swan faucet handles which was a relief as we can now trace the provenance of the now dismantled and decapitated faucet handles the previous owner of our home had such a penchant for. Only Livvy retains two gold plated duck faucet handles at home, and after the palace visit, is insisting that as soon as we return stateside we replace hers as well. It would be a grand place for a party, although they do not rent it out, I asked.

Dinner that night was atop a tall building at Vogue Restaurant. We very nearly missed the breathtaking views as David had come in his Lululemon shorts and there is a strict (or as we learned not so strict) dress code for men. We sweet talked our way onto the elevator inadvertently fooling the hostess into believing that David had a change of clothes in his plastic bag. Once atop the building and in the restaurant, the hostess realized the bag contained nothing but our camera, and reluctantly allowed us to be seated in a table on the terrace but hidden in a corner away from the sophisticated patrons wearing full length trousers. The food was delicious and we all reminisced about our time in Istanbul, vowing to return. Chloe alone reminisced about Club Maramara, and we listened patiently as she spoke more or less incessantly about the Frenchies. We listened to her recounting of every nanosecond at that place whose very name I cannot bear to mention, and her repeating the names of the Frenchies over and over again. She had now friended the majority of them on Facebook and so we were treated to a description of their various wall photos and Babblefish translated exchanges. Knowing I would be sleeping in 800 threadcount Egyptian cotton that night made me a very very patient listener.
In the morning we enjoyed one last smoked salmon and housemade brioche-filled breakfast before the teary farewell. Oh Four Seasons Bosphorus Istanbul, how I will miss you.

We caught our flight to Athens and had only 45 minutes to catch our connecting flight to Mykonos. We were in trouble as we had to collect our baggage and then re-check it at the Check-in counter upstairs. I went ahead with Livvy while David, my mom and the other kids waited for the bags. I cozied up to the robust Check-in agent, who had bleached blond hair with plenty of charcoal black roots and a pronounced distaste for Turkey. I laughed at her every joke about the incompetence of the Turks and explained our predicament, taking care to blame it on the Turks. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. Some 20 minutes later, David arrived running wildly and wielding his overloaded baggage cart with Justin and my mother right behind him at a jogging pace, while Chloe sauntered not the least bit flustered by the threat of missing our connecting plane. Our Check-in agent placed a phone call and smiled at us, no problem. She tagged the bags and as she handed me the boarding passes, smiled and said, “Now you run, don’t tzop. Run tzrough tzecurity tzek to tze gate. Goo luck!”.

And so we ran, we ran like the wind. Sweat beads dripping down our brow, we ran and ran until we reached the tzecurity tzek. We threw our bags on the conveyer belts and dashed through the xray machines in one fail swoop. Only my mother was tzopped as she had forgotten to remove a bottle of water from her carry on. When the security guard asked her to discard the bottle, she merely smiled, twisted the cap open with one hand and chug-a-lugged its contents like a football player in a Gatorade commercial. Water dripped down her chin and onto her shirt but still she drank until the bottle was drained of all liquid. Satisfied, she smiled and tossed the empty bottle over her shoulder into the garbage, lifted her carry-on bag and continued her race to the gate.

We arrived at the gate with 10 minutes to take off, and nervously asked the gate agent if we had missed the flight. She smiled and told us that they had held the plane for us and that as soon as our bags were safely aboard, we would be taken to the aircraft. We’d made it!! High fives all around and a well deserved napkin for my mother to wipe her slightly soaked shirt. David sprinted to the kiosk to purchase some Gatorade like beverages for the electrolyte-depleted team. This would be one for the record books. The airline we were flying was aptly called Olympic Airlines, and that day my friends, that day we were all Olympians.

Club Marmara, the adventure continues...

The next morning word had spread throughout the Club Marmara that Californians were present. Like newly arrived exotic pets in a zoo, staff members sought us out eager to have a look at the American guests. Each staff member we saw smiled brightly as they passed and many called out “Hello California!” We had become the state.

Thanks to David’s early morning handy work, we had secured 4 stained foam loungers in a shady spot near the tattoo artist and the dilapidated ping pong table. Although this was a slightly out of the way area, it did not deter the jubilant staff members from approaching to bid us their most sincere wishes of, “Good Morning California,” or to invite us to “Come joue Volleyball California.” Fortunately my mother is slightly deaf in one ear and was spared the persistent onslaught of curious well wishers.

The tattoo artist whose sign advertised “Henna and Permanent Tattoos” and did not insist on any minimum age, was actively hustling for business and approached me no less than twice insisting a butterfly at the base of Livvy or Chloe’s bikini bottom backside would be a wise choice. It was only by sitting near the tattoo artist that I began to appreciate the amount of gold and silver teeth present in the mouths of the guests at Club Marmara. You see the tattoo artist was quite the joker and spoke French well, and so he would entreat the guests with his humor in exchange for which he was shown bright smiles exposing abundant gold and silver caps. I suppose French dental practice favors the capping of nicotine rotted teeth in these metals. Thankfully I have excellent lenses in my sunglasses so that the glare was not the least bit troublesome, although the sight itself is a different matter altogether.

Once again Chloe was basking in the glow of the Frenchies, doing flips, hanging in the hammock with her entourage, downing iced café and coca, giggling and having a marvelous time. It was only the sight of her joy that gave me the strength to carry on. (see sneaky pics i took from a safe distance of her in hammock and pool with Frenchies) Livvy and I stayed hung out with my mom and spent a fair amount of the day in the absolutely disgusting swimming pool, brimming with bikini bottomed boys and girls, and whose water was a pronounced puce color.

David and Justin went on a full day scuba diving excursion and a triumphant Justin returned beaming at having seen a Nudabranch in the wild. Neither David nor I had a clue as to what a Nudabranch was but were overjoyed as well. Apparently until this dive Justin believed they were only native to New Zealand. Folks, that is what Justin does on the web, surfs exotic sea animals. Clearly no need to check his computer cache.

After showering with my flip flops on, we left Chloe with her posse and escaped Club Marmara for dinner in town by the marina. Although I was not at all interested in acquiring a fake Prada wallet or imitation Gucci belt, the notion of returning to Club Marmara was so depressing, that I insisted on looking in every shop desperately trying to extend the time away. In the end I bought some wildly overpriced suntan lotion and finally David insisted we hail a cab and return. Reluctantly I acquiesced, thankful that we are headed back to Istanbul in the morning.