Benvenuti a Roma

Since there was no direct flight from Split to Nice, Christy and I "had" to stop through in Rome for a night...  I suppose it goes without saying that our stay there was somewhat less eventful than our stay in Croatia, but we still had a great time... especially considering that we randomly booked our hotel from the airport computer in Split (4 hours before we checked-in), on a keyboard that was so complicated, I had to ask the people around me three times to identify specific keys for me.  Yup... not something I recommend trying to do when you are exhausted and surrounded by irritated, rushed people in the middle of a Croatian airport.

Its Rome, I had to have a picture of pizza somewhere

That aside, the journey to Rome was easy and when we got off the plane, we walked (well, Christy walked and I limped) over to an information booth to ask about the best way to get to our hotel.  "You are girls. You should take taxi; it is less work," suggested the man behind the counter...  The gorgeous Italian man.  I have to admit that comments like that normally annoy me, but to be quite honest, someone could tell me that I look like a miserable, fat gorilla, and if it is said with an Italian accent, I probably wont so much as even bat an eyelash.  Well, I'd bat my eyelashes... but in a different way.


Anyway, we decided to heed the man's advice and we were at the hotel in no time.  (One of the great things about Rome is that it is a flat rate to and from the airport by cab).  We walked (and limped) into the hotel lobby where the concierge gave us the good old-fashioned once over. It was clear from his expression (let's be real, he didn't even try to hide it) that he, too, agreed with our previous assertion that we looked homeless (see: below post).  To add the cherry to the homeless sundae, these two raggedy people (if you could even call us that at this point) had booked their room from a random Croatian IP address only hours before... but it obviously doesn't end there.

The street where the hotel was

I looked down, as I could not bare to face the concierge, and noticed in the meantime that my leg was bleeding.  Well, that can't be good, I thought.  Not only did the concierge have two homeless-looking foreigners walking into his hotel, but one of them was actually injured, bleeding and obviously unaware of it.


After checking in, we decided that we should spare no time in getting my leg examined, and after a few minutes of deliberating with the less than amused concierge, we wandered (limped) out of the hotel and into the nearest pharmacy to see what they could do for me... and we were met with looks of sheer bewilderment.  The three elderly Italian pharmacists deliberated for some time, with Christy and I making pathetic attempts to communicate to them what exactly had happened to me (mind you, I fell flat on my face upon entering the pharmacy, so it wasn't that hard to figure out). I received a long lecture from one of the pharmacists in broken English about how I should have been responsible enough to go to the hospital to get stitches the previous day, while the other two sat behind her shaking their heads at me and occasionally interjecting in angry Italian... I'm sure they were interjections that I'd rather not have understood (and I'd probably have ignored them anyway).  It was decided that Christy would have to mend my wound herself, as we barely had time to go to the hospital.  And, more importantly, going to the hospital would leave us without time to do the one thing we came to Rome to do: carbo-load.


So, we returned to our hotel, carrying half of the contents of the pharmacy in our hands, and tended to my leg.  Once that was done, and we upgraded our appearances from homeless-looking to "if I squint really hard, they might actually be cute girls", there was nothing left to do but eat. We found a good, local restaurant upon recommendation from our concierge, staffed by gorgeous Italian men, all of whom, Christy later found out, aspired to move to New York and become actors.  How original.  Benvenute a Roma.

Alive at last

Our would-be dinner was amazing: focaccia pizza bread, gnocchi with tomato sauce, spaghetti bolognese...   The thought of it now makes my mouth water with a kind of depression that only accompanies the memory of a meal I never actually ate. True to my damaged form on this trip so far, I ended up really only being able to enjoy about half of the meal before having to go home.  I was feeling sorry for myself after the traumatic experience of watching Christy tend to my wound, and had decided to pop back some of the painkillers begrudgingly given to me by the pharmacists... on an empty stomach.  The after-shock was less than enjoyable.  I went back to the hotel to rest up for the next day of touring Rome, and waited in bed for Christy, still feeling sorry for myself.  Two hours later, she stumbled back into the room, teeth glowing red from the bottle of wine she was "forced" to consume by herself, due to my absence.  Needless to say, the banter than ensued wasn't exactly PG-rated... Christy: tipsy, contentedly full, and in love with the six waiters who befriended her when I left; me: starving, miserable, and pain medicine pumping through my veins. So, I'll fast-forward to the next day... a happier day... for everyone's sake.

Fontana di Trevi

One of my favourite things about Rome is how small it is compared to London.  Our hotel was in North Rome, not far from the famous Colosseum, so we decided to spend our morning touring the city on foot.  We woke up and decided that the first thing we had to do was get some traditional Italian coffee from the nearby cafe. Once we were satisfyingly awake (read: bouncing off the walls), we started our journey to the Trevi Fountain, which was the only famous site in Rome I hadn't seen before.  Now, Italian coffee is some of the strongest I've ever had, so our planned "stroll" around Rome was more of a jittered sprint... with my injured leg and all.  Doctors should prescribe caffeine in lieu of pain-killers for every minor injury, in my opinion.  It was the first time since getting to Rome that I wasn't sitting around feeling sorry for myself... in fact, I was running around feeling sorry for everyone else around me who hadn't enjoyed such a wonderful start to their day.  I was no longer a tortured soul, and Rome was the perfect place to lift my sprits.
We walked (ran) to the Trevi Fountain, where we found it impossible to toss coins into the famed water... there were too many tourists obstructing the area.  I thought that with patience and careful aim, I'd be able to avoid the heads towering over me and land my coin into the fountain... but Christy advised me not to try...  Knowing my luck, I'd hit someone. (Plus, the coffee was giving me too much confidence.)  So, we walked back towards the Colosseum, both pretending to be too cool to acknowledge the tourist traps waiting for us there in the form of dressed up Roman warriors.  And a  couple of hours and a few stunning cathedrals later, we were back at our hotel and ready to say goodbye to Rome after our adventurous morning.

Too many tourists at the fountain

Injury aside, those few hours in Rome were wonderful.  It is a really beautiful city full of fascinating history, and one that I would recommend that everyone go see at least once in their life.  The people are some of the nicest in the world, the food some of the most delicious, and the history some of the most interesting... to sum it up in a nutshell.  I also remember this specific trip fondly, as it was the calmest 24 hours that Christy and I had during our entire vacation....  You see, after Rome, we went straight to the French Riviera.... and what we thought would be a relaxing week with my family ended up being quite the opposite... but more to come on that...

A casual sail through the Aegean Sea

I've been debating for a while about how to write this next post about my time in Croatia. Its been a week since I've left, and too many things come to mind when I think about my time there... chief among them how beautiful the Aegean was; the number of sites I planned to see and did not; and probably most importantly, my ability to survive on three hours of sleep in three days... actually, just my ability to survive.

I guess I'll start at the beginning, with Hvar.  Hvar is a mid-sized (I think?) island off the southern coast of mainland Croatia... the "easiest" way to get there is by ferry, as described in my previous post.  It was difficult to appreciate the beauty of the place right when we arrived, as our door-to-door journey from London clocked in at about 12 hours (one plane ride, 2 bus rides and the classy old ferry), but in retrospect, I can say the length of the journey only heightened the sense that I had arrived in one of the more beautiful islands (and places) I've ever seen.

Upon receiving a detailed list of things to do in Hvar from our hotel, Christy and I had made a full itinerary of activities (not excluding observing the nightlife) that we wanted to do while we were there.  We planned to hike up to the fortress and monastery, try our hand at kayaking (yeah, right) and maybe even enjoy a bike ride across the island.   Well, suffice to say that the nightlife got the better of us and we did none of the above.  We did, however, get kidnapped by a band of Asian investment bankers who had rented a yacht for the week.  This activity was not exactly on the list provided by the hotel, but in retrospect, it certainly supersedes any old hike. 

Back to our first night in Hvar.  After a delicious dinner of what I assume is typical Croatian fare (green pasta with shrimp and cream, pizza with mushrooms and ham), and a chat with our overly friendly waiter (read: back massage to go with my after-dinner coffee), Christy and I decided to hit up Carpe Diem, one of the big clubs on the island.  As we approached the harbor and I was still wiping my tears away (how else does one react to an unexpected massage with dinner?), a couple of dorky-looking guys (a far cry from the tall, dark, handsome, tanned Europeans we'd been dreaming of) literally bumped right into us and asked if we had a cigarette.  "I'm fashionable Fred," the first one said to us, "who are you?" "This is crazy Christy and I'm loca Leila," I replied, proud of the fast wit that came after that bottle of wine we had with dinner.  It was a beautiful bout of fate. Well actually, let's call a spade a spade: introducing himself to us was really just the worst decision of Fred's life.  He couldn't get rid of us after that.

8 hours later, the sun was rising and we were celebrating the view (and our new friends) on the deck of Fred and his friends' boat (as one does) with Croatian pastries, bloody marys and plans to go hiking to the fortress/monastery with Fred that afternoon.  "I need to go up there and pray for my liver," crooned Fred between bites of his heavenly, meat-filled pastry.  Breakfast of champions.  "I'll drink to that," I said, slurping down the last drops of my bloody mary, "I can't wait to go hiking today." Well, as it turns out, I spoke too soon.  Before I could so much as finish that sentence, we felt the boat slowly lurch forward and away from the port. I looked at Christy; she looked at me.  We tacitly agreed that there really was nothing to do but finish our drinks and pastries and find a way to casually ask the guys where we were going.

View of Hvar and the monastery from the boat

Bol.  We were being taken to Bol, an island known to have one of the more beautiful beaches in Croatia.  "Well, as long as we don't miss our flight on Thursday, I guess there's no problem with that," I laughed to the rest of Fred's friends sitting in front of me, all of whom had finally emerged hungover from their rooms, blackberries and ipads in hand.  Once again, that sentence now seems rather ironic... "Dude... You two are the only girls we've met who are smart enough to figure out how to stay on the boat," added Daniel, a fellow Arab on board.  (Little did he know, this was a total accident).


So we sailed on through the Aegean Sea to Bol, about a two-hour ride in total.  Christy and I were too in awe of the beauty around us to worry about what we were getting ourselves into, and the guys were too busy typing on their ipads (and cringing about the state of the economy that morning) to try to reassure us.  I then realised that while we may have been kidnapped, we were totally safe... these guys cared more about making sure we didn't slow down their internet with our phones than they did about anything else.

How did I end up here?

When we arrived in Bol, Marco, a crewman (and a Croatian God, we'd all decided), jumped out to announce that we could jump in and swim if we wanted to.  Finally. One of the guys looked up from his phone, and I could see the thoughts of his hedge fund slowly slip away. Economy? Banking? The stress lifted from his face, and those horrible words disappeared from his mind as he finally saw where we were.  Picture water so clear that you can see the bottom of the ocean from over 10 meters below.  Picture bright green mountains that dropped off to a smooth white beach populated with beautiful Eastern European families (ok fine, there were screaming children, too).  This was Bol, a perfect paradise.  A few of us decided we had to swim out to the shore to see what it was like but doing so was a stupid idea, as I soon realised.  Hungover, panting, and nearly having drowned (twice), I finally make it back to the boat 45 minutes later to find Marco smiling (laughing) up at me from above.  "You guys look really cool in those goggles!" Thomas, the only non-Asian of the bunch, announced over to Christy and me.  Damn it, why did Marco have to hear that.


No words can really do Marco justice.  He was the epitome of a golden, beaming human.. not meant for our earth.  Fred explained to me that Marco was 22, studying to become a boat captain and working as a crewman in the meantime.  Apparently there is this entire hierarchy in the boating world that he was entering into, where one starts at the bottom as a crew member and works his way up into being a captain of a larger boat.  Now, I don't know much about boating, but I can only imagine that putting up with a band of 7 intoxicated nerdy investment bankers for a week, and accompanied by their two ditzy girl tagalongs for a few, days probably constitutes one of the lower rungs of the boating hierarchy.  Nevertheless, he took it in stride, and always with a big shining smile.


Our next two days were basically just what I described above: swimming in beautiful water, eating amazing seafood and of course, a spot of drinking.  Christy (after bragging about her ice hockey days to all of the guys on the boat) tried to wakeboard and failed miserably, to her dismay and to my amusement.  I ate so much I nearly burst, to my dismay and everyone else's amusement.  But we were all in happy spirits.


So, as our trip came to an end, the guys decided we'd go to "Hula Hula" for one last adventure (and so we could pick girls up for them).  And an adventure we had. Hula Hula is your typical beach bar/club, complete with Euro house music and sexually ambiguous dancers. I remember looking out into the sunset, my hair nearly crusted over from being covered in champagne (no, crusty champagne hair is anything but glamorous) and thinking ok, I can die now and all will be ok. Well,  YET again I spoke too soon.  I looked down and there was blood gushing down my right leg... so much blood... to the point where I wasn't even sure I had a leg anymore.  Christy recalls us all sitting around it and laughing.   I recall thinking that it was a great excuse to talk to Marco.  To this day, it remains a mystery, but perhaps the best injury I have ever sustained... and soon to be favourite scar.  

Hula Hula sunset moment

Those few days in Croatia were some of the most fun I've ever had.  I wish I could say more about the people in Hvar and the Croatians themselves, but Fred and his amazing crew of friends were the first people we met and the last we saw before we left (besides the paparazzi Italians from the ferry).  As we boarded our ferry to Split after 3 straight days of not sleeping, Christy and I reminisced about what exactly had just happened to us... I looked down and noticed a mysterious band-aid covering half of my right leg and started to wonder if it was really worth trying to piece things together.  Christy turned my iPod on and noticed the song "Loca People" by Sak Noel had been downloaded and played about 200 times over the previous 72 hours.  We laid down on our opposite seats, muttered something in agreement about how homeless we looked, and both passed out, too exhausted to even try to process what we had just been through.  It was only two days later, when the haze of the Hula Hula had worn off that I realised I needed stitches... but that's a story for next post in Rome.

Homeless

A secret Eastern European Heaven

"You look hot, are you hot?" Christy sings when we step out of the airport in Split.  "Yes, Christy, I'm very hot".  As if the beads of sweat mercilessly accumulating around my shirt collar aren't indicative enough of the misery I'm going through right now.  Its 9.30am.  We've just gotten off of a 2 and a half hour flight.  We did not go to sleep last night.  Said beads of sweat reek of vodka, probably because the blood alcohol content in my system is more like the alcohol-alcohol content right now.


Why am I here?  Oh yes, a sudden flashback to a certain drunken pact we made not to sleep before our 6am flight.  Great idea.


Another flashback to the airport in London... Once we check in, Christy and I run to airport security and, as usual, I set off the metal detector.  I'm led to the pat-down area.  "This is the most action I've gotten all month," I laugh to the security woman who, needless to say, is less than amused.  I then notice that my suitcase is set aside for what I assume to be a liquid or aerosol violation...  Damn hairspray.  I need that damned hairspray.  Oh, but no...  Once again, as usual, I am the subject of a "random security search".  The attendant pulls out my bag of liquids and asks me to spread some of my toothpaste onto a sheet of paper.  Lovely.  Checking the Arab for explosives, yet again.  How unoriginal, but at least I can keep my hairspray.  Christy then hops over to me and yells "Crap! Did they find your hairspray Leila?" "NO Christy.  Keep it down!" I yell between my teeth. Thankfully, the attendant didn't hear.  When he asks for my surname (as if he didn't already know), I decide to place a dramatic emphasis on the AL- preceding the rest of my name.. you know, to emphasise the Arabness (and awkwardness of the entire situation). In retrospect, probably not such a good idea.  But it was 4.30 am and I was grumpy.


Back to Split.  We're off the plane and find an ATM to withdraw cash.  "What's the exchange rate?" Christy asks me.  As if I'd thought that far ahead.  We take out 500 Croatian kuna each, not knowing if it would show up in our bank statements as $50 or $5000.  Oh well.

The view from the death bus

A 20 minute bus ride later,  we find a cafe to sit at in Split while we wait for our ferry to arrive to take us to Hvar.  I feel like shit and I'm still sweating.  4 coffees, a packet of chocolate digestives and 2 bottles of water... the cloud of haze that has been circling my brain finally seems to have lifted now its time to board the ferry.  "How long is the ride?" we speculate.  We try to eavesdrop on the group of French tourists next to us who are arguing about whether its "20 minutes" or "2 hours" but we can't hear what they finally decide as they keep sticking their heads in their t-shirts to light their cigarettes in the wind.  Then, I look up and realise there is a band, a hoard rather, of Italian men trying to "subtly" take our pictures.  "Christy!" I say, "Those creeps are photographing us..."  "Well what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?" she replies, as she pouts soulfully towards the camera. Welcome to Europe.


After the 2 hour ferry/photo shoot, we arrive at the Hvar port. We see a bus with "Hvar" written on the window and not knowing what else to do, we decide to hedge our bets and fight for a seat on it. We luckily grab the last two seats, but soon find that we are not the last two people on the bus. Oh no.  I'm still sweating and sitting in the aisle seat. I turn to find myself face to face (rather, face to armpit) with the last 30 people that the bus attendants decided to squeeze onto our bus in the aisles.  I hear Christy yell, "its ok.  This will probably only take us a few minutes."  Those few minutes turn into a 45 minute ride through Hvar... on a tiny road through the mountains. It was the most intense (scary) and scenic drive one could possibly imagine (think Robinson Crusoe meets Eastern European castles.. plus the armpits I was still surrounded by), we finally find ourselves in the middle of the Hvar town square with nothing more than a page of directions from the hotel.  "From the bus stop, go through the square, take a left somewhere, then take the second street on the right," it reads.  Street? What street? There are no streets here, only a labyrinth of restaurant back rooms with a few couches sprawled around.  But alas, we find the hotel and soon realise that we are literally in the middle of paradise... or bumfuck heaven, as we dubbed it, considering that it took us well over 12 hours to get here.

The town of Hvar

Thus concludes my first day in Croatia.  I am still sweating.  We settled down in our hotel and make plans to find the beach and hike up to the fortress tomorrow.  Looking back on it, we realise that our expectation of having a normal vacation now seems like somewhat of a joke...

Here I go

OK so, I’m well aware that my attempt to write this blog about my travels lacks any and all originality… but I’m jumping on the bandwagon anyway... if you're not into it, then you should probably get off my blog.  I figure that this is the best way to keep everyone updated about whatever it is that I’m trying "to do with myself" now and in the future.  Plus, let’s be honest, we all know I love the sound of my own voice.

Basically, a few weeks ago, I decided to put off going to law school (see: never) and spend some time travelling, exploring the world, and mainly hoping that at some point, I can find some sort of inspiration for what I want to do in life.  Yeah, yeah, this reeks of cliché, but if I don’t do it now, when will I?  The decision wasn't that out of the blue for anyone that knows me well.. I've been dreading law school (aka sobbing hysterically any time anyone got more than two drinks in me) and I've been thinking about doing this for a few years.  I have had this thirst.. this need to go live in an entirely different part of the world and I think I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I don't do it before I have a ball and chain attached to each of my limbs in the form of a job, familial obligations... and age (ugh). 

I’m getting TESOL certified in September in London, and I’ll hopefully buy my one-way ticket to go to Shanghai in October.  Been sending my resume out to every institution that so much as resembles a school… we’ll see how that works out.  I'm going to try teaching English for a year and see how I like it and reassess after that.  In any case, the certificate is a great, as it is basically an easy way to get a visa into any country these days.

I picked Shanghai because it is somewhere entirely new for me.  I’ve never been farther east than Lebanon, and I so desperately want to see that part of the world.  My dream was to go to India for a year or two to teach, but there's zero demand for English teachers, as 99% of the people speak it.  So after India, I was considering Buenos Aires because I already speak Spanish, but again, I need to be somewhere entirely new... its still the "Western world" and I think I will learn more from being in China.  Plus, learning Chinese would be sick and I think that if all else fails and I find myself in the exact same place (emotionally, mentally, etc) in two years, at least I’ll have some Chinese to add to the languages I know… something to help me when I’m searching for jobs.  And if China actually does take over the world one day, then hey, it couldn’t hurt to know the language.  

Anyway, the countdown is on… about 2 months til I’m going and a lot to do beforehand.  I would really love and appreciate any comments or advice that anyone has for me... general words of inspiration.. or warning. This blog probably wont be exclusively about China… I just thought it would be a good overall theme.  I’m half-idiot when it comes to these things and I am absolutely positive that I will find one way or another to offend someone with this and get it booted off-line.  Here’s hoping that I don’t.