Jump Seat Riding

Our luck was bound to run out soon. From the moment we walked into the Orlando airport and saw a sea of Brits decked out in Mickey ears and I heart Universal Studios t-shirts lining up to go back to London, I knew this wasn’t going to be as easy or as amazingly glamorous as our flight over…

After what seemed like hours of waiting in line we made it to the desk to hear the dreaded “All flights are completely overbooked” to be muttered out of the Virgin girls lips. And with this news we went on a mad dash running from the Virgin desk to the BA desk desperately trying to be squeezed onto a plane back to good ole England. After lugging our six 50 pound bags from the Virgin desk, through the food court, (which was torture because at this point I was starving and could only think about stuffing my face with a Chick- Fil-A number one with Polynesian sauce) and over to the BA check in counter about 6 times to only be confirmed that neither airline had even a single seat available on either of their planes. I was sure there was no way we would get back home tonight, so I left Andy at the desk and sat with my mom, my life’s belongings, forgot about getting back, and instead calmed myself with my much anticipated Chick-Fil-A!

After filling my belly and being able to put my concentration back on how we were to get home, instead of when and what I was going to eat, I joined Andy back at the customer service desk to be updated on our flight situation. As I walked up I saw Andy filling out paper work and was sure this was a good sign! I immediately and excitedly asked, “Did we get seats?” The answer I got was, “Well sort of… We have put in jump seat request forms and if the pilot accepts them than we have jump seats.” Hmmmmm this should be a very very interesting fight!

After the captain agreed to allow us to fly home via jump seats, we ran to our gate waited until all the screaming babies, rowdy kids, and grown adults wearing head to toe Disney paraphernalia boarded the plane. A flight attendant then escorted us onto the plane, but not after they took out ticket and with sympathetic eyes said, “Oh… jumps seats.” She led us up the magical stairs of luxury premium economy when the thought ‘this can’t be too bad’ popped into my head after remembering my experience in the realm of business class, to only be quickly wiped from my train of thought when shown out seats at the top of the stairs. I am not even sure if seats are an accurate description of what we were to be sitting in for the next 9 hours. Tucked away in a little corner at the very top of the stairs in peaceful business class are two tiny blue leather fold down seats. Most people may not even notice these two seats because they blend in with the back of the wall. As I pulled down the connected bench like seat, keeping one hand pressed down on the flimsy bench to ensure it didn’t snap back up, I managed to get myself sat down. This is when I realized I would be sitting at a ninety-degree angle on what felt like a lightly padded piece of small plywood with one of my butt cheeks hanging off the side to make room for my lover.

As the very privileged other passengers curled up into their oversized seats as they sipped on a glass of champagne the flight attendant served them before take off, Andy and I were escorted to other jump seats for our take off. I was taken to the front of the plane while Andy was taken to a fold down seat at the back. As I sat down a flight attendant asked if I had ever ridden in jump seats before, to which I nervously answered, “No.” He then flashed me a smile and said not to worry but there were a few things I needed to know before we took off. Before I could even grasp the thought that I might possibly have to do something, he was rattling off safety procedures for if the plane crashed! He quickly began to go through my long list of possible responsibilities as I tried to remember my first task of pulling the white tape before pushing open the emergency exit or maybe it was push the door then pull the tape. And the second I was able to tune back in he said, “Andy lastly don’t forget your oxygen back while you swiftly exit the passengers.” YIKES! By the time he was done with all these rules, responsibilities, and directions I decided it probably wasn’t the best time to tell him I do not react very well in high tense emergency situations! To the relief of me, and the other passengers, the plane took of as normal and I returned to my assigned jump seat.

By the time dinner was served I was thanking God I demanded we get Chick- Fil- A in the airport. As I watched the dinner tray slowly make its way down the aisle towards our tiny corner seats my mouth was watering at the dinner options they were describing to the lucky paying passengers. I had already decided I was going to have the grilled chicken with steamed green beans and buttery mashed potatoes. However, that scrumptious dinner cart rolled right past us back into the galley and we were handed a lap trey with an assortment of breakfast yogurt and crackers with the reject vegetarian dinner. After picking at my dinner, not sure if I didn’t eat it because it was bad or just too hard to hold a large trey in my lap while sliding off the almost non existent seat, I decided I would try to get some sleep. I took about two hours of wiggling, shifting, and annoying Andy for him to leave our seat and curl up on the floor. There we were for the next 5 hours; me with my legs dangling in the aisle, half my body on the seat, and my head stretched out resting on a side storage compartment while my husband curled into a little ball on the floor behind the black netting of the staff storage closet. 

An Aviation Dream

For the past two years I have been on so many airplanes I might as well have been waving my arms around to show the other passengers how to fasten their seatbelts and safely locate the emergency exits incase of a crash landing. I have gone from Florida to California to Fiji to Australia to Thailand to Western Australia back to Florida then to England, Spain, Morocco, and to and from England and Florida a few more times. And every time I take a trip it is usually the same old drill; buy a ticket, go to the airport, check in, hand over my bags, get felt up at security to insure I am not smuggling in a bottle of water, board the plane, eat some food, watch a movie, and then leave the plane to go through more security. This is about as interesting as it gets. This is until Andy and I flew standby…

It’s all a waiting game when flying standby. Nothing is definite and everything is last minute. Even thinking about it makes me so nervous I am breaking out into a small sweat. So naturally the day before our August flight (and one of the most hectic and busy traveling seasons of the year) to Florida I was a frantic, worrying, on edge, mess. We had been told that all flights to Orlando were over booked and our chances of making it on a flight were not only slim to none, but if we wanted to try to get on an overbooked flight to New York we would have to make a mad dash to Heathrow. All I wanted was to see palm trees swaying while my skin soaked up the hot Florida sunshine and I sipped on a margarita! After hearing this I had little hope that my milky white skin was going to see that sun anytime soon.

We approached the check in counter with uneasy tense smiles and said, “Hi. We are the two on standby for the 11:00 Orlando flight. Are there any seats?”  As she opened her mouth to say, “ Yes actually. There are exactly two seats on the plane. You are both really lucky,” I swear I could hear Zippity Do Da playing in the background. Andy and I just about skipped through security and right up to the gate with the cheesiest biggest similes on our faces as if we had just won some huge grand prize. When we boarded the plane Andy was directed up those mysterious stairs, which I soon found out lead to business class, and I was pointed down the over crowded loud economy aisle filled with little kids who’s dreams of meeting Mickey mouse were about to come true.

After a couple hours of movie watching to drown out the high pitched squeaky voices of over eager kids, my curiosity got the best of me and I snuck up the stairs to see what flying the high life was all about. Oh man are we all missing out! It is spacious, serene, and so quiet you could just about hear the waves of the ocean below. I quickly found Andy’s seat and sat down in the aisle, which is about the width of three economy aisles, ignoring the snooty glares directed at my peasant self. I didn’t mind being the poor economy girl because as soon as my butt hit that floor a beautiful lady in red was handing me a glass of champagne asking what flavor Ben and Jerry’s ice cream I wanted! At that moment I had died and gone to aviation heaven! Sitting on the floor in business class was better than having an entire row to your self in economy. This was so fabulous I didn’t know how I was going to go back to Disney daycare downstairs! But as soon as that thought entered my head the man sitting next to Andy stood up and excused himself from the two-seat row. As I got off the floor to let him by, he told me to take his seat and be with my husband. My jaw dropped as I nervously laughed and said, “That is so nice of you but I can’t take your seat. Thank you so so much though.” He stared me straight in the eyes and said, “You are newlyweds and should be sitting together. Take my seat and tell me what seat you are in.” I couldn’t even believe what I was hearing! I looked from this man to Andy and back at him unsure of what to do or say. All I could do was put on my anxious smile and squeeze out a few nervous giggles. That’s when he said, “Tell me what seat you are in so I am not walking around the plane aimlessly looking for where to sit. I will be back up here at the end of the flight.”

After sitting down in my new oversized seat, as if the flight couldn’t get any better, the flight attendant brought us a bottle of champagne and chocolates on behalf of the staff as a wedding gift and their congratulations! I was in total bliss for the next 5 hours as we flew over the Atlantic and I sipped on champagne, ate fresh fruit, and disturbed the peaceful atmosphere by talking Andy’s ear off! 

Soccer is the Religion of England

From the middle of June until the end of September, basically the entire summer, Andy is out of town working during the week. This means instead of having a boring Sunday of sitting around watching movies I have probably seen a millions times and can recite verbatim, we are making the most of our Sunday making it fabulous Funday!

In the UK football, or as we Americans prefer to call it soccer, is a religion. The entire country goes nuts when England plays and since this year is the World Cup England seems to have turned into a crazy mess of red and white. Football is the topic of conversation, even the Prime Minister googley eyed while talking about their chances of winning and who he thinks will score the most goals. Football is the news, and I mean the only news! It is what shows on TV day and night telling from who the players are talking with, to what the players are eating, to who they are sleeping next to, to what color underwear they will wear on the big day. Then you have the England flag being flown outside every shop, restaurant, and car window in the country. It seems in England the only time the white flag with a big red cross is being flown, is when the football team is out kicking a ball around some big green field. When it was St George’s day, a national England holiday, the flag was not seen anywhere. Actually, I didn’t even know it was an English Holiday until Andy informed me of the patriotic holiday. There were no flags, people dancing in the street wearing their red and white while singing English songs, drinking beer ending the night with sparkling red and white fireworks exploding patriotism in the sky! I suppose I have spent too many years with the 4^th of July! I supposed in England when their football team plays it is their 4^th of July. While the football team prepares to play in South Africa, the entire country seems to go patriotic. Every store has a flag flying out side their door and England cups, napkins, balls, umbrellas, and any other piece of merchandise you can stick the name England on, is ripped off the shelves to be used or to decorate their houses, gardens, bodies, or cars. Even the thrift stores had their displays decorated in red and white with ‘Go England’ signs hung for all to see when they walked by. It was all just very strange… All this for a few guys who get paid millions and millions to put a round ball through some netting. I sure didn’t understand, but I also am not one to miss out on a party… And this country has turned into one massive party!

           

In the sprit of Sunday Funday, along with joining in on the patriotism of the locals, Andy and I, with a few friends, hopped on our bikes and rode down to the beach for a little fun in the sun followed up with some English footy. The big game against Germany started at three in the afternoon, which gave us a good few hours of playing on the beach soaking up the rays. We lazily floated on blow up rafts in the ocean while watching the boys play paddleball on the shore. And when 2:30 rolled around we, along with practically all the other beach goers, rolled up our towels, put away our beach toys, and crowded into the one and only beach bar to boo Germany while sucking down beer and praying England pulled through with a miracle win.

            After about 3 beers and a score of 3 to 1, I couldn’t help but laugh at the atmosphere in the rooms. The people that didn’t storm out of the bar after the third goal by Germany and stayed to watch England go down and be knocked out of the World Cup, wore the most sad and pathetic faces I have ever seen. It was as if England had lost the war and had been stripped of their pride and dignity. It was as if their country had let them down and their lives were collapsing down around them. I think I may have even seen a few grown men cry. As a matter of fact, I actually think the entire country had tears in their eyes. I tried my hardest not to laugh out loud and offend these poor soccer-loving fools, but it was just too funny. It was too much to watch these people get so emotional over 90 minutes of ball kicking. And even more amusing how fast some of those flags were pulled down and that patriotism was tucked away until the next time England plays! I guess I still have a long way to go before I completely understand this foreign culture and am transformed into a true Brit! 

How to Hold a Baby

Last night I officially became Aunty E! My brother Nicholas and his wife Vanessa’s little boy Hayden arrived at 8:16 weighing 8 pounds 3 ounces. He looks like the perfect chubby baby with blue squinty eyes and all 10 fingers and toes! When I saw the pictures of Hayden Andrew I couldn’t wait to be home in August to hold the newest member of the family. But as soon as I envisioned myself being handed Hayden, I had a flashback of the last time someone tried to hand me a newborn…

Last August close friends of Andy's had a beautiful baby boy. Now I must say, I have never been much of an infant lover. They are just so small and fragile and at the rate that I tend to break delicate things, babies make me incredibly nervous! I have this fear of my monster man hands breaking their teeny tiny body, especially since I am about as gentle as the Incredible Hulk. However, after a few weeks of the delivery of their son, Andy and I made a visit to meet the little guy. The entire car ride over I was just praying I wouldn’t have to hold him. I wouldn’t have the slightest idea what to do with him or how to hold him or what to say to him, if even talk to him at all since he can't answer back. On top of this it was the first time I was meeting the parents who are good friends of Andy.

When we got to their house the baby was immediately given to Andy to hold. About 30 minutes went by and I was thanking God! I assumed I was in the clear from baby holding duty, as I just sat on the couch and admired his pretty little face from afar. Right at this moment I hear, “Andy, don’t hog him, give Elyse a turn to hold him!” Andy shot me a terrified look which basically said, “Hmmm I am not sure if this is a good idea” while I began panicking. I didn’t even know how to pick him up and take him from Andy. I was sure I would probably drop him on the floor and I am pretty sure the same thought was going through Andy’s head because he got up and placed the little guy right in my arms as I continued to stay sitting on the couch.

Everything seemed to be going ok. The baby continued sleeping not making a noise or moving an inch and I was beginning to think this wasn’t so bad after all. That is until, after a few minutes of holding him, he seemed to get extremely hot. In my head I was really beginning to panic, wondering if this was normal for a baby to be so hot. I mean it was burning. My arm was beginning to sweat from the heat it was letting off. I couldn’t help but think the thing was over heating! I mean, can a baby over heat?? I had no idea and it definitely seemed to be! The panic must have shown on my face because Andy’s friend got up to relieve me of baby holding. That is when I made the catastrophic infant mistake... As I put my hands under his tiny little arms and lifted him to his Dad, the entire room shouted in unison, ”Hold his head!!!” What??? How?? And where was the head going to go? Was it going to pop off and roll across the floor?? I had no idea what to do. I definitely wasn’t going to grab him by the head and hand him over, with his little head clamped in my shovel hands as the rest of his tiny body dangled, so as quickly as I could, I passed him over to his parents praying the head didn’t go flying off!

On the way home I asked Andy what all this holding the head stuff meant. He explained the neck wasn’t strong enough to hold the head up on its own. Who knew! All I can say is I think I will be opting to just pet my new little nephew!  

A Breast Baring Beach

I have heard time and time again there is nothing like a hot summer day in the UK. When you are gritting your teeth trying your best to make it through that horribly wet, dark, freezing winter, there always seems to be someone whispering in your ear, “Just you wait for that hot English summer day! On a sunny day it’s the most beautiful country in the world!” And believe it or not, these past couple weeks I am beginning to believe what I thought were only myths, might actually be true. Every day for the past 14 days it has been red hot and without a cloud in the sky. In England, when the weather is this great the birds seem to be singing a brighter song, the people are skipping about licking ice cream cones, even the dogs have a little extra bounce in their step, and I seem to walk around with a blue bird on my shoulder! It is as if the entire country takes a break from life and soaks up the warm sunshine. And being the Floridian I am, I threw on my bathing suit, or swim costume as it is called here, and went running for the great Atlantic!

When I got to the beach I was shocked at how much it resembled the beaches in Florida! Every inch of white sand was taken up by sunbathers young and old stretched out on their beach towels desperately trying to turn that pasty white skin to a beautiful golden brown. Kids were splashing in the water while teenagers were further out trying their best to stay afloat while learning to kite surf. I couldn’t wait to join the massive crowd!  But as I walked closer to the beach I quickly began to think to myself, “Toto we aren’t in Kansa anymore!” I suddenly remembered I was now living in Europe, where these free thinking body lovers like to let it all hangout! My eyeballs kept trying to dodge the many grandmas with their breasts sagging in the open air showing the world what happens when gravity starts to kick in! Every time I tried to look away there was another set of wrinkling boobs staring me in the face! My inner 80 year old could not believe these older women would expose themselves in this nature, My 80 year old was dying to shout out to them to put some clothes on and cover those puppies up! It was just not a pretty sight. I couldn't help just standing staring with my mouth hanging wide open! This was utterly shocking to my conservative ways! I wasn’t sure how to react to this nudity! Then, I thought of a topless, southern, redneck, American beach and instead became quite thankful for the breast bearing British granny’s, because lord knows if it was legal to bare it all in the U.S., the UK grandmas wouldn’t seem so cringe worthy after all! 

Leaving Exotic Morocco

Very early on the last morning of our very exotic vaycay, as the sound of prayer called through the ancient walls, the rumbling call of my stomach was waking me up and telling me to make a run for the bathroom! And at 4:30 in the morning, as Andy packed for our 7:50 flight, I basically began to die on the bathroom floor. All I could think was, “Oh my God I don’t want to stay in Morocco! I MUST pick myself up!” As Andy checked out of the hotel I crawled to my suitcase and slowly threw on a dress, trying not to move too suddenly or my head would be back to being submerged down the toilet!

By the grace of God I got myself dressed and made my way down the stairs where the cab we ordered the night before would be waiting for us. I knew all I had to do was control that nauseated feeling and try not to think too much about needing a bathroom because I unfortunately did not have my adult diaper on! When we made it outside the hotel, in true Moroccan style, the cab was a no show and we had to take one more walk down the unforgettably smelly streets. I didn’t know how I was going to do it. My face was turning greener with every step we took and it was only a matter of time until all my bodily functions gave up on me! Right as I was about to give up and let it all go, my fabulous husband flagged down a cab, put me in, rolled down my window, as he pitied me all the way to the airport. And somehow I made it.

Andy pretty much dragged me out of the cab, through the airport entrance, and plopped me on the floor on top of our luggage as we waited in the line to check into our flight. Right as I thought I was in the clear and my wave of Moroccan fever was beginning to pass, my stomach lurched sending me running through the airport to the nearest trashcan. I made it to the clear plastic trash bag just in time to hurl up the remaining couscous still stuck inside me. I could feel all the eyes staring at me thanking God it wasn’t them. Thanking God they did not have the African bug! And while my head was in the trash and my body was trying to dispose of this third world stomach flu, a French lady stopped next me, said something in French and handed me her dirty tissue and half drunk bottle of water. I would like to think this was a kind gesture and not a woman handing me her trash to throw away since the can was currently occupied but who really knows… It was Morocco after all! 

The Mountains of Marrakech

To escape the dirty madness of Marrakech, Andy and I opted to go on a day trip to a village in the mountains to see a few waterfalls. We found an advertisement for the trip outside a rundown building about a block from the square. We reluctantly walked in and followed arrows painted on the once white walls, up the stairs, to a small office where two women sat waiting to fool innocent tourists. She told us a tour was leaving the next morning at 9am and would be back in Marrakech at 4 in the afternoon. It would take us on a short journey to a small local picturesque village in the mountains with multiple waterfalls overlooking the tiny town. We looked at one another with that, “Is this too good to be true” look as Andy handed over the 400 Moroccan Dirham to the scamming lady.

The next morning when Andy and I woke we got dressed in shorts, tee shirts and flip flops,  then walked to meet the tour bus. When we arrived at the meeting place a 12-seater junk mobile was waiting for us. It probably would have been safer to stick a few lawn chairs in the back of a semi-truck and go bolting down I-95 during rush hour traffic, but we kept a smile on our face looking forward to seeing the “stunning breathtaking waterfalls” of Marrakech. And in true Moroccan fashion the 1 ½ hour trip took 3 hours as the driver stopped off at all his friends' roadside markets selling the same crap being sold on every street in the city! If there was a random vendor on the side of the road we stopped because it was his “best friend”. Then we arrived at the, oh so not, picturesque village.

As we all got out of the dirty gasoline fume filled van, we were faced with the derelict shabby little town selling more clay pots, cheap sequin slippers, and rundown restaurants with food I wouldn’t even feed my dog! But before I could wrap my head around this rural mess, a young man was running up to our group claiming to be our guide to the waterfalls. Not wanting to be scammed out of more money, Andy and I said we would just follow the trail and see the falls on our own until the guide said, “Not good idea. Come with me then decide if you want to pay at end” Ahhhhhhhh fine! So we went with the rest of the group.

I was soon counting my lucky stars we decided to go with the tour guide when he began to lead us on a path filled with jagged wet rocks with the incline increasing every few feet! As the rocks got bigger and wetter, we were guided to cross extremely rickety man-made log bridges bound to collapse into a quickly flowing stream, all while wearing flimsy flip flops! If it weren’t for Andy catching me and the tour guide literally lifting me up over a rock, too big for me to climb, I would probably still be floating down that stream in the Moroccan mountains. When we finally got to the waterfall and I was sure this disastrous flip flop rock climbing hell was over, the tour guide told us we had a hour and half to go and the hardest part would be over soon… right after we climbed a wooden ladder (which was just leaning on an 8ft wall of rock and probably made by the rickety bridge maker)! I immediately whipped my head around to Andy and gave him the glare of death!! He knew right then he was best to steer clear of me for the rest of the hike…. If only the poor tour guide knew the same! Lets just say as I slipped and fell down the mountain we just climbed, I gave the tour guide quite an earful! And even with the little English he knew, he learned quickly this was not my cup of tea!!! 

Livin' Like a Local

You are not really on vacation until you live like the locals. Every time I travel somewhere new I want to go places the locals go, and eat what the locals eat, and shop where the locals shop until I feel like I have really experienced their culture. It was no different when we were in good old Morocco.

After seeing the hustle bustle of the square, I felt it was time to get out and see where the locals went for a night out. Now, I am not sure what was going through my head since 1. Women are not exactly free to do as they please, 2. I was in the dirtiest place on earth, and 3. My book warned that behind the religious facade drugs were quite prevalent. But being the ditz I am, I was ready to experience the REAL Marrakech! This is when Andy and I made the catastrophic mistake of asking the hotel owner, born and raised in Marrakech, where we could go to smoke the sheesha or hookah with the locals. He knew just the place… He said it was the same one he has been going to for years! This is exactly what I was after. A place where there wasn’t a tourist in sight! And did we get just that!

After a beautiful, tourist packed, candle lit dinner on a roof top terrace in new town Marrakech, Andy and I were ready for that hookah! We left the restaurant and Andy began leading the way to this local joint. 20 minutes later, after walking down sketchy streets, which seemed to get darker and creepier the further we went, Andy decided if it didn’t pop up in the next block we would start heading back. I was ready to turn around 15 minutes ago when I began to see more and more creepy men standing on the street corners and all I could hear in my head was the sound of my parents voices saying, “Elyse, you need to be more aware of your surroundings! You are going to end up somewhere you shouldn’t! People will take advantage of you! Stay some place safe or you will get hurt!!” And right as I was really starting to freak myself out, we were suddenly facing the little run down local’s café.

Walking in I could feel about 100 men’s eyes all staring at me and judging my scandalous provocative choice of dress because, heaven forbid,I showed a little elbows and cleavage! But even with these glares and even though I was the only woman in the entire place, I just couldn’t stop laughing and being super excited to have a real Moroccan sheesha experience! When we got to the counter to order, the looks from the staff didn’t get much better than those of the customers. We ordered our grape flavored hookah, sat down at an open table, and anxiously waited. They brought us the enormous sheesha and set it on the floor in between the two of us. Andy took the first hit then passed it to me. As soon as I put the pipe up to my mouth and inhaled, I knew this was no normal flavored tobacco. My head started spinning, my eyes got droopy, and the giggles started pouring out of my mouth! There was no other explanation…This had to be wacky tobacky! Laughing and swaying I passed the pipe back to Andy and said, “Is this making you feel funny? I feel really funny! I think there in something in our hookah!” To which he laughs and responds, “Yeah. My head is a bit fuzzy!” And not being the brightest crayon in the box, I took that pipe right back and inhaled again saying, “ I think we have been drugged!” I then tried my hardest to be smooth and blow smoke rings as the room spun around me. We did this for about a whopping 5 minutes, while all the locals curiously stared at us, until my face abruptly when bright white and I broke out into a cold sweat. Uh-Oh!! Right as I thought I might Ralph right then and there all over the table, I instead managed to get out, “I need a bathroom! Now!!” I somehow got myself up the stairs and into what they called a bathroom, I didn’t think it deserved such a dignified title, and was very very sick! After my moment passed and I was feeling little bit better, Andy had to just about carry my butt out of the hookah bar, still high on god knows what, as we decided it was probably best to leave the rest of the burning sheesha for the locals and get back to the hotel. Needless to say the rest of the trip we stuck with the tourist activities and, more importantly, the tourist sheesha bars! 

A Hammam For Two Please!

The best advice I could give to Moroccan travelers is while in Morocco live like a rich Moroccan! After a few days of trekking through the streets of Baghdad, I mean Marrakech, we (by we I especially mean me) needed a break from the chaotic mess surrounding us and what better way to do this than with a little bit of pampering. After a stressful day in the market souks, the owner of our hotel recommended we have a traditional Moroccan day at a fancy spa. My eyes immediately lit up and I just about screamed, “Yes!! Yes!! Call and book us in for tomorrow!” That night I researched about as much as I could in my little travel book about a traditional Moroccan massage. According to the book, it was tradition for the women to be completely naked and men to keep on only their underwear, as they have their bodies rubbed down with aragan oil and Rhassoul clay. I had no idea what to expect, since I had no idea what these two things were, but I couldn’t wait!! I was ready to strip down to my birthday suit to be massaged and relaxed!!

On the way to the spa, which the hotel owners raved about and even our book said was one of the best in Marrakech, I was sure we were given wrong directions. It seemed we had somehow found an area that smelled even worse than the square and every other building looking like an image you see on CNN war coverage. It just didn’t seem the type of place one should walk without a weapon, much less the type of place a spa would be. But there amongst the rubble was the little slice of heaven, Bain de Marrakech. We walked into this room richly decorated in huge tan plush couches with rays of light sparkling around the room from the copper plated lanterns mounted on the walls, as we were greeted by a women who should be on the cover of next years Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition! I just couldn’t contain myself! I ran up to the reception desk and said, “ Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch for the traditional Moroccan Hamas at 1 please!!” The beautiful women just stared at me as if I was crazy. I looked over at my husband Andy, who was giggling and also looking at me as if I was a complete nut case, and said, “It is for 1 p.m. right?” To which the lady responded, “Yes. Please have a seat and someone will be right with you.” As we sat down I looked at Andy and said, “What was all that about!?! That lady looked at me like I was on crack!!” To which he responded with a huge grin across his face, “You said Hamas!!” Still confused I said, “And your point is…. that is what we are having, a traditional Moroccan Hamas!” He laughed and said, “No it is called a Hammam. Hamas is a Muslim terrorist group!!” Oops! Maybe I should pay a little bit more attention to my pronunciation, especially when visiting a Muslim country!

Now, this was my very first time ever getting a massage, or even being at a spa, so everything was new to me and even more so since we were getting a Hammam, which I wasn’t entirely sure what it entailed, except getting naked. When a woman came and got Andy and me, she showed Andy to the men’s changing room, and then me to the women’s. I was questioning if I got naked right away or if that would happen later. When she showed me in the room and to my locker I figured it was now time to strip on down and cover up with the luscious white robe she gave me. But just to make sure it was naked time I asked if I was to get completely nude. She looked at me, nodded, giggled, and showed me the motions of taking off my top. Since she couldn’t speak English, I motioned a gesture asking if I should keep my bottoms on or off. She kept laughing at me and showing me to keep the bottoms on (by pointing to her bottoms and shaking her head yes and then touching her top shaking her head no). Safe to say I was to just go topless. Fine by me! As I was changing I heard a few women, talking in god knows what language, laughing from outside the room. Then I saw one of them pop their head into the changing room and look at me, only then to hear hear more laughter! I slipped my robe on over my topless body to meet the women out in the hall and find out where to go next and if they were laughing at me. They motioned for me to follow them, all three showing me the way while still giggling under their breath, as they led me out to Andy and 5 other couples laying around a pool, NOT topless. I was so confused!! I went up to Andy and whispered, “ I don’t have a top on. They told me to take it off and then showed me out here. Should I go put it on??” Andy laughed and said, “Yes go put it on! You can’t sit out here topless!!!!” Like I knew!! I was ready to bare it all!!

After dressing myself more appropriately for a public pool, a lady came and took Andy and me off for our Hammam. At this point I really didn’t know what to expect, since I had already tried to go naked at the pool and called the massage a terrorist group. She led us through a door and into a small private hallway, which had a small almost pitch black and very hot sauna like room with two long benches on each wall. She motioned for us to take off our robes and sit down on the benches. As I took my robe off and took a step into the room, I was jerked back by the women grabbing my bathing suit top and ripping it off my body…. So now I was supposed to be topless?!? Then I went into the room, more confused than ever, when the women came in, poured a bucket of water over the two of us, and told us to lie down. I looked over at Andy and could tell we were both thinking this is amazing, but not sure what to expect next. Then about 10 minutes later two ladies came in and rubbed what had to be the arragan oils all over our body and hair. It was a thick blackish colored oil scented with mint and a few other spices I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was invigorating! As I breathed it in, it completely cleared my nose as if I had Vick’s Vapor Rub on my body. They left the room leaving the two of us to relax with oil covering and dripping off our already sweaty bodies. They came back 10 minutes later and poured water all over of us, rinsing off the oils, followed by an entire body exfoliation. However, my exfoliation process quickly became a bit more like the traditional Moroccan experience I read about. As I was on my stomach, just about asleep from this coarse glove circling around my back, a hand takes my bathing suit bottom, yanks it off my butt, then tosses it on the floor next to my bench, and continues on with the exfoliation! I don’t think my butt has been this soft since the day I was born. She then tells me to flip over while she continued to exfoliate the rest of my bare body… All of it! For a nation that is quite modest they sure know how to let loose on a massage! After the exfoliation they put the red Rhassoul clay from head to toe and 10 minutes later rinsed it off. After being rinsed of the clay, I took a shower and finished to the women greeting me with open towels as they began to dry me off. All I kept saying is, “Ooooo! Oh, thank you! Thank you,” unsure of what else you are supposed to say when you have your arms and legs spread as someone is patting you dry. After the pat down, we were escorted into another relaxing room with lounge beds and hot mint tea waiting for us! Once we finished our tea it was off to our hour long, full body, couples massage! I was sure this is what it must feel like to have been Cleopatra!

The Moroccan Treasure Hunt

After 5 interesting days exploring Marrakech and its surroundings, Andy and I came to the conclusion that visiting Morocco is like being on a huge treasure hunt; you have to search through the endless filth, ward off the creepy locals, and dodge the cobras to find the gorgeous hidden treasures!

And the first treasure we came across was our hotel, The Riad Sabba. When those huge wooden doors opened, it was like walking into nirvana! It was clean, smelled of roses and mint tea, decorated with traditional Moroccan lamps, and the only sound came from the water trickling down the fountain in the center of the house. This place was stunning. It had only 4 rooms, we were the only ones staying there until our last night. Breakfast was served every morning on the roof top terrace over looking the tops of the ancient rose colored city, and when the owner found out it was our honeymoon he brought 36 red roses to our room and decorated the center fountain with rose petals! Now this is exactly what I thought Morocco would be like.

Then we made the decision to step back outside into the crazy local’s territory and find the huge square where the storytellers danced, snake charmers sat, fire-eaters roamed, and the winding paths to the market souks began! I was sure that it was going to open up into this fantastic square and be like something from the movies. I thought maybe we were staying in the bad area of town and just had to get through it to make it to the fabulous mosaic architecture and bustling markets selling fancy Moroccan memorabilia. I couldn’t have been anymore wrong. If anything, we were staying in the nice end of the old city! The closer we got to the square the more annoying the people on the side of the street got. They would grab our arms trying to sell us some crap for a “good deal” because “it quality”! Then the smells began to get worse. They were never pleasant to begin with, but the closer we got to the center of the old city the stronger the smells got and when you didn’t think it could possibly get worse, it did! I still to this day have no idea where on earth this stench was coming from or what could possibly produce it, but I have a sneaky feeling it was a mix of the locals and the many creatures from moneys to donkeys roaming the tiny streets!

When we got to the square it was nothing like I had pictured in my mind. In all honesty, I had pictured a place that could have come out of Universal Studios or Disney World and instead was faced with this huge open space packed with people trying to scam you into giving them money for something you were not even aware you wanted! As we pushed our way through the crowd looking for one of the sites I had read about in my travel book, a local man snuck up behind Andy and me and threw this HUGE poisonous water snake around Andy’s neck! I jumped about 4 feet in the air and let out a scream as Andy was being pulled away shouting at the man, “Get this thing off my neck!” And right as I began to chase after him, this women, covered from head to toe so I can only see her eyes, has me by the hand pulling me in the opposite direction drawing henna tattoos on my hand demanding I give her 10 pounds! As I am arguing with her telling her I didn’t ask to be drawn on and explaining to her she just attacked me with her henna pen without my permission and for that I would not pay, I see Andy a few feet away having the exact same argument with the snake man! These people were unreal!

To take a break from this hectic, nothing like Disney square, we headed into the enormous market maze of the souks. Well it wasn’t any less hectic, if anything more so. There were people coming at you in all directions trying to get you to buy their pastries (coved in flies), scarves, shoes, leather bags, mirrors, lanterns, nick knacks, spices, and any other junk they could annoy you enough into buying, all the while you are desperately trying to avoid the scooters and mopeds speeding down the already overly crowed path. Then a determined carpet seller spotted Andy and me and drug us into his shop. From the get go Andy was saying, “No thanks we don’t want a rug” and “We are not going to buy a rug” but the persistent, and I think a little drunk, man was determined to show us every kind of style rug he had, as he served us sweet mint tea. Now I read in my book not to accept tea from any seller unless you are going to buy his products, so at this point I am getting really nervous and fearing he is going to force us into buying one of these hideous, probably flea infested (tip from the street smarts section of the travel guide) rugs. And right when I thought my nerves were at their wits end, he tells Andy and me to follow him, as he pulls a hanging rug aside to show a narrow dark staircase, to see how the rugs are made. Before I could object and run from the shop crying, Andy is walking up the stairs! I couldn’t believe we were following this man! This is exactly the kind of thing my mother has been warning me about my entire life. This is the exact kind of thing that could end in a Hollywood blockbuster like Taken! Here we were following this man up into a dark room, in the middle of this mayhem, where he was going to kill Andy and sell me on the black market! But once we made it to the top I saw he really was just showing us how the rugs are made. And in the corner of this outrageously hot room was a young woman working as fast as she could to get another one of these awful rugs made!

After this adventure filled day we thought it was a good idea to go to the restaurant the owner of the hotel recommended. It was in an area called the Kasbah and was about a 10 minute walk away from the hectic square. When we got to the restaurant, called The Kozy Bar, it wasn’t that much different from all the other areas we had visited that afternoon. But as soon as we walked in it was like stepping into a romantic novel. The center of the restaurant was open to the outside air going up three stories and tiny rays of light dancing on the walls from the hundred intricate Moroccan lanterns hanging. The third story was a candle lit roof terrace with hug white pillow seats and packed tourist drinking bottles of wine while looking out on the frantic street. It was so blissful and romantic that it was like having dinner in Arabian heaven! We stayed here for a few hours just eating and drinking and talking about how Marrakech really wasn’t that bad. I mean how could you dislike a place when you were sitting somewhere like this??

But the meal eventually came to an end and when we walked outside back onto the dirty rundown streets, Andy looked over at a building in ruins and said, “This probably isn’t the most romantic thing to say on a honeymoon, but walking around these streets is exactly like walking around in Iraq”. So I would say that last sentence pretty much sums up Morocco (except for those few little treasures)!

The Honeymoon

Our wedding was the most amazing day of my entire life. The sun came out to play, the people were laughing, and everyone was dancing! It was a day full of fun!! It was all and all a magnificent day! After such a perfect wedding, and I really mean absolutely perfect, there was bound to be a hic-up somewhere…

A couple days after our wedding Andy surprised me with a trip to Marrakech, which I had no idea where it was until I googled it, for our honeymoon! I was ecstatic, of course even more ecstatic when I googled it and found out Marrakech is in Morocco and even more excited when I saw the ancient city is packed full of beautiful belly dancers, endless hookahs, snake charmers, fire eaters, and magic carpet rides!!! AHHHH this was going to be the best honeymoon ever!!! For 5 days I was going to be Princess Jasmine and Andy my Aladdin while we strolled around the ancient streets having magical Arabian nights under the stars!! I was so thrilled I could hardly contain myself! I immediately started packing all my Moroccan inspired tops, short shorts, and flirty summer dresses, because after all, it is my honeymoon! I didn’t know anyone who had ever been to Morocco, and especially not on their honeymoon! I was so sure this trip was going to blow those Sandals, lie by the beach and drink daiquiris honeymoons, out of the water! I was going to a place with thousands of years of history, that is bright and colorful, and even Disney felt inclined to make it into a romantic movie!

When we got to Gatwick I ran to the airport bookstore and bought a copy of Marrakech, Morocco’s Travel Guide. As soon as we got onto the plane that book was wide open with my nose stuck right in the middle of it. The entire 3 hours on the plane I kept oooooohhhhhhing and ahhhhhhhhing to Andy about all the different places we had to go see! I was so excited I could have peed my pants right there and then! I was so sure this vacation was going to be the best vacation I had ever taken! After all I was going to be in an Arabian desert soaking up the hot sun walking around within ancient city walls! The entire flight I was moving all around and giggling like a little kid with a sugar high! I couldn’t believe I was going to be in Africa in Morocco! Then I got to the street smarts at the back of my Morocco travel guide… where it began to inform me women should not show their shoulders (well there goes 80% of my tops), or wear shorts (didn’t pack anything but shorts and short shorts at that!). It then went on to warn us not to trust any locals and to eat with your hands when  at all possible because the silverware is unsanitary! Thank God I had my antibacterial gel!! I thought we were off to Marrakech not Afghanistan! But I was determined to not let this get me down! It was going to be FANTASTIC! And then we stepped out of the airport…

When we walked outside about 20 Moroccan men came running when they saw white western fresh meat come through the airport doors and tried desperately to get us to crawl into their hunk of wadded up tin they called a cab for some ungodly price! This is when I got my first inkling that maybe Morocco wasn’t going to be as romantic as I originally thought! Once we haggled, fought, and got the cost of the trip down to a point that wasn’t completely ripping us off, we got into the gas fume infested taxi. The cab driver then turned the car on, put the car into reverse, ran right into the car in back of it, then put the car into drive, ran into the car in front, and away we went! At this point I was frantically looking for my seatbelt in this 1983 piece of crap, when the driver, as he zipped frantically down the road, turned around and yelled, “NO NO! No seatbelts here!!”  Well I soon learned safety and cleanliness wasn’t really on Marrakech’s priority list!

As he manically drove into the old city walls down roads the size of sidewalks, with people literally dodging our cab, we finally came to a stop in this little square where barefoot kids ran around in the dusty, filthy streets and the women glared at my “provocative” sense of style with disgust. Where on earth were we??? Where was our beautiful hotel Andy showed me on the internet?? Where were the Princess Jasmine and Aladdin look a likes?? And beautiful magic carpets??? All I could see were old dirty sand red walls, dirty water and trash in the street, and a man who looked a thousand years old selling cigarettes on the corner!!! Yikes!! This was no Disney movie! I would be lying if I didn’t say I was a little nervous! Andy then turned around to the driver and said, “Where are we and where is out hotel??” in which he responded by simply pointing down one of the narrow paths that extended from the little square deep into this maze of red walls. Then a man came running toward us telling us to take the street and follow him! Now if I were alone, at this exact point, I would have burst into tears, jumped back into the cab, and demanded the driver to take me back to the airport. But since I was with Mr. Marine we followed the man to a huge beautiful brown wood engraved door that he claimed was our hotel. All I could think was, “What on earth was I in for and Where on earth has this boy taken me!?!?!?”

The tanning experience...

In preparation for getting hitched, I have decided it would be best to ditch my ghostly white British completion and hit up the tanning bed to get my Floridian glow back. And even more so they say being tan makes you look thinner and we all want to be a little skinnier! I walked across the street to the only tanning bed in Poole and signed myself up for 100 minutes and asked for the lotion that would make me the blackest! I explained I was getting married and needed to look like I live in Jamaica and maybe even be mistaken for Bob Marley’s daughter. I am thinking 100 minutes will get me halfway there. After getting many bizarre looks from the tanning lady, she told me to go into the middle room. As I stood up and turned around I saw these three porta-potty look-a-like pods in the middle of the room. It had to be some kind of optical illusion because there was no way an entire tanning bed fit in that tiny space. Not knowing what to expect I walked in and was shocked to see it was a standing up tanning bed!! How on earth does that work? What do I do?  How do I cover my face, how do I cover other sensitive body parts I wish to keep hidden from the UV rays, and most importantly how do I take my quick 10 minute nap pretending I am at the ocean sipping a pina colada? Not even sure how to turn this space ship looking thing on, I popped my head out and told the lady I had no idea what to do or how this thing turns on. She looked at me like I was from Mars, came over, and told me I step inside this pod, push the lift button so the floor rises up (weird!), and hold onto the bar over my head!!! I did as she said and when the lights came on and the floor lifted me up, all I could think about was my armpits burning! They have never seen the sun and are whiter than a fish’s belly. Then all flustered about having burned armpits, on top of being in this roasting machine with my arms above my head, I started seeing stars and getting light headed. I was on the verge of fainting. It was like I was over heating and there was no place to sit down! This was the most un-relaxing experience of my life! I am beginning to rethink my dream of being a skinny Jamaican and may just go to my wedding as a pasty Brit! 

Day One: The Ride to Dover

When my alarm went off at 4am I still couldn’t believe I was about to spend the next four days trying to ride a bicycle from the center of London to the Eiffel Tower! When I got to Greenwich Park I put on my best “this will be fun” smile, when I actually thought I might pee my pants right then and there from nerves! After a few pictures of failing miserably to mask my fear with a smile, we were off! I started off as the second person in line peddling my little heart out thinking “this isn’t too bad!” And about three seconds after this thought a line of my fellow bikes goes zooming past me until I was dead last, struggling to get up the first hill, with no other bikes in site. And my fear of being lost, last, and left behind began! This is when I thought I maybe should have done a few more training sessions with Lance Armstrong’s cousin, aka Andy.

Then I saw the most wonderful site at the top of the hill, Andy’s brother Robert off his bike fixing his chain!! This was probably his worst nightmare, seeing me slowly creep up the hill to latch on and slow him down, as he leads me to the others. But as the good guy he is, he waited for me promising to not leave me behind. As we peddled off, Robert in the lead and me trailing behind, I soon realized we have no idea where we are going! We stopped to examine the tiny map and I quickly learned I am not the world’s best map-reader. I couldn’t believe after approximately 30 minutes of starting off I was completely and hopelessly lost with no idea of which way to go. I wasn’t even sure if we were north, south, east, west, up, down or even still in London! So I kept my mouth shut and let Robert lead the way to correction. After about 40 minutes of riding down a few hills and turning around to ride back up them, then passing the same pub three times, we decided maybe Robert wasn’t that good at map reading either and it might be a good idea to call the support vehicle to come and pick us up. We were about 20 miles behind and spent almost 2 hours circling around London clueless as to where we were going. This was going to be a LONG four days!!

After this minor detour, I hopped back on my bike and set out with the others determined not to fall behind! All went well for about 4 hours. I was keeping up, laughing with the others, enjoying the beautiful day and stunning English countryside. Then all the hills hit me and there I was trailing behind again, walking my little bike up every hill, rather mountain, I encountered! This time Andy came back for me to help me on my quest to get to Dover and finally get on the ferry to France. It wasn’t too much of a shocker to me when Andy and I got lost. I have come to the conclusion if anyone is stuck with me expect to get lost! I can’t read a map and am significantly lacking in my sense of direction. After a couple of hours of riding around and stopping to ask for directions we were finally on the right path. However, at this point all I wanted was the support car to come and pick me up and take me to the ferry, but I was with the encourager and quitting was not an option! But this all changed when I saw the support car driving toward us to lead us into Dover where the others were waiting. And that is when it hit me that I had been on a bicycle for near 10 hours, have been lost twice, and on the verge of tears for the past 4 hours. I just couldn’t go any farther! So I packed up my bike, apologized to my energizer bunny for getting in the loser vehicle, and got in the car as Andy zoomed past us for the last 3 miles into Dover! 

lost, tired, and ready to cry! 

Biking

The daunting London to Paris ride is quickly sneaking up. Most weekends Andy and I go for a training ride, which I begin to dread on Thursday. Last week the weather was horrendous and predicted to get worse throughout the weekend. Then I heard the magical words come out of Andy’s mouth, “Looks like we won’t be able to go for our 40 miler.” He sounded devastated, as if someone told him his five star vacation to Hawaii had been canceled, where I on the other hand, could have sworn I heard angles singing!! I could finally look forward to the weekend and not have to think about climbing on that purple piece of metal crap!  Then Sunday rolled around….

We woke up to the sound of sea gulls singing and people laughing. The sun was showing it’s face for the first time in what seemed like weeks. It was a gorgeous day. And then Andy muttered those horrible words that made it feel as if my world was collapsing down around me, “What a beautiful day! We can go out for our ride!!” And right then is when my mood turned from happy go lucky to negative Nancy!

There Andy was with a big bright smile across his face as he put on his black spandex pants equipped with a padded butt and reflective paint, as I moped around complaining about anything that came to mind. I hated every minute of this bike ride and it hadn’t even begun.

Once we did get on the rode chirpy Andy raced ahead as if in training for the Tour De France, while I peddled with all my might and still barley able to break 7 miles per hour. After 10 minutes we reached a busy roundabout where Andy zipped through it at the speed of traffic waving his hands around doing fancy road signals, leaving me to fend for myself. I had no idea what to do. Do I stop, look left, look right, go in the middle of the road, stay to the side???? I had no idea! It looked like a bike riding death trap! So I stopped and got off my bike and crossed two roads walking my bike to a safe parking lot where I could get back on with ease. However, when I got my bike safely across Andy was impatiently awaiting me. And this is when I lost it shouting, “I can’t believe you LEFT me back there at the roundabout to die!!! How was I ever supposed to get around!?!?! I didn’t even know which way to look!!! I was almost run over!!!!” To which he responded, “How could you almost get run over when you didn’t even try to cross!”

Fuming I got on my bike and stormed off down the road only to look back and see no Andy. I turned around and saw him peddling toward me in a state of rage shouting, “ Where are you going?” I sassily replied, “I don’t know! You didn’t tell me! I don’t even know where I am!” And eventually after much back in forth I said,” That’s it! Give me the keys I am going home,” which opened up the door for Andy to give me a military motivational you can’t give up and be a quitter speech! UGGGGG I hate those! I keep telling him I am not a military recruit. I just wanted to scream, “I don’t care if I am a quitter!!!!” as I throw my bike into the river, but instead I got back on the bike with the look of sheer disgust on my face.

And on we went. Me hating every single minute of being on that bike wishing I was anywhere but peddling along the boring road on a bike the squeaks with the thought “I HATE this running through my head every 3 seconds, while Andy does circles around me saying “Isn’t this great! Don’t you love it!?” Lets hope on the London to Paris ride Andy and I are nowhere near each other because it might just start WWIII! 

A day in the life of Mr. Hearty

To keep myself busy, since my visa does not permit me to work, I volunteer with the British Heart Foundation. The other week the head of volunteers called and asked if I would like to go to a local elementary school during health and safety week and speak to a few different age groups about the BHF and how to keep a healthy heart. I of course jumped at the opportunity, since this meant an entire day outside of the house! She emailed me the talk, which told the little kids what a heart looked like, what a volunteer was, how exercise keeps your heart healthy, what to eat to keep healthy and so on and so on. I was basically going to be the boring lady who comes in, is probably taking up recesses time, and talking about monotonous healthy nonsense, while out the window the luckier class gets to tour the fire engine.

When I got to the school I spoke to three different groups. The youngest ones had a hard time understanding my accent and looked at me like I was from Mars when I would slip up and talk American, saying jump rope instead of skipping and trash instead of rubbish. When I finished with the last class I thought it had gone pretty well and my goal of getting out for a few hours was accomplished, even if it was spent at an elementary school full of children. But I was totally mistaken because it was far from over. Zoe, the head of volunteers said, “Now if you don’t mind can you go and put on Hearty.”

Hearty is the BHF mascot. It is a 4 foot wide, six foot high, Bozo the clown shoe wearing, white glove waving, red, smiling heart! It is AWFUL!!! It is huge, smelly and had probably been worn by some of the UK’s finest. I couldn’t believe I had been asked to put this thing on and parade around with children. But, being the push over I am, said, “Yes of course” with a smile on my face, which was followed with Zoe saying, “Great and don’t for get you are Mr. Hearty…. So just wave and don’t talk!”

There I was changing into this god-awful costume in the principle's office with all the 10 year olds pointing and laughing at me from the playground. Then, all suited up, I had to be literally pushed by two other people through the door, out onto the playground, where they continued to point and laugh, and shoved through another door to where I was going to be photographed for the local paper. I waddled my way through the room with little girls screaming “It’s Mr. Hearty” as I awkwardly waved my hands which stuck out the center of Mr. Hearty’s body. As the children gathered around me for our picture, I heard some of the rug rats saying, “Kick him over” followed with about four boys punching and kicking my legs and the enormous heart I was wearing trying with all their might to knock me down. Then came the hands poking through the arm holes and bottom of the heart trying to feel what was inside this hideous thing, followed by a girl sticking her entire head through the arm hole proclaiming, “Its not a Mr., it’s that American lady!!” Then they all tried to cop a feel to see if I was a girl or rip off the costume to see if it really was “that American lady”. After another 10 minutes of this torture it was finally time for me to retire as Mr. Hearty.

I just can’t believe at the ripe young age of 24 my life has come to dressing up as a big red heart named Mr. Hearty for free!!

Back in the Sunshine State

As much as I hate to agree with Andy, England is an absolutely beautiful country… when the sun decides to come out and play! I would even go as far as say it is one of the most beautiful places in the world, when the sun is shinning and you are whipping around the tiny country lanes, passing though little village after little village, stopping off at old pubs, and having a pint of real English Ale with your lover. However, it is not so picturesque when, in a span of two and a half weeks, the sun only shows his face for a total of two times! And this would be called the entire month of February. I was dying to get back to the Sunshine State! And lucky me, here I am! I came back Sunday to attend, and be in, my friend Ashley’s wedding (my very first bridesmaid experience)!!

When my plane landed at the Orlando International Airport, it felt like I was a bear coming out of hibernation after a winter of sleeping in a dark cave. The sun was blinding bright without a cloud in the sky, just as a Florida evening should be. And once I was welcomed back with smiles from customs, I got my bags, and ran into the welcoming arms of my mommy! Could being home in the south and the sun be any better?

YES! When I arrived home my fabulous dad had a glass of crisp but fruity chardonnay (my fav), peel and eat shrimp, and filet wrapped in bacon waiting for my mom and me. I think this is on par or even better than being Her Majesty the Queen! When I woke up it was on to daily womanly duties with my mom. We started by educating our minds with an afternoon showing of Valentines Day before meeting my dad and being treated to an early dinner of sushi and Japanese plum wine. It was then time for me to meet up with the girls, and bride to be, to talk about all things direly important: dresses, cakes, flowers, and the men we are about to marry!

Next I had my father daughter day. We did all the things one should do when having a day of just the two of you… get measured for his May 15th costume (top hat and coat tails), have Philly cheese steaks and fries at a greasy diner dive, and pick up the new seat for the newer, meaner looking motorcycle he just bought. Then in the evening I was wined, dinned, and serenaded with the sounds of the acoustic guitar as we watched a movie. I am pretty sure this is how Scarlet O’Hare felt in Gone with the Wind as she gallivanted around the South, before the war of course!

Well, it's time I go. My duties of being a Floridian lady of leisure must continue…. I have a lady’s breakfast in an hour and I mustn’t be late!

And the winner is...

I am obsessed with the UK show “Come Dine With Me”. For one night, 4 or 5 people, who have never met, go to one another’s house and cook for each other, they then rate the meal and hosting, and finally give a score, from 1 to 10, for the over all night. I watch new episodes every night at 5:30 and catch the re-run marathons in the day, judging each meal and moronic contestant as they try to win the 1,000 pound prize at the end of the week.

Now that I have become a stay at home fiancé, I imagine what culinary creation I would make on the addicting evening show. Every meal I cook I rate myself, and of course, have Andy rate me as well, to see if my fab cooking could have won the grand prize. Andy, as the perfect fiancé that he is, always gives me a 10 out of 10, while I think, “No. No. This is NOT ‘Come Dine With Me’ material and defiantly not worth the 1,000 pound jackpot”.

Then tonight I made an Asian inspiration, chicken, sweet orange, and walnut salad, with sweet ginger teriyaki dressing and 2, well maybe 3, glasses of crisp white wine…. YUMM! And after I tossed the salad, served it, and took my first bite, I shouted, “This is IT!! This is my ‘Come Dine With Me’ winning dish!” Which I followed up with, “Andy what do you think? What score do you give me? And don’t just say ten… tell me your score as if you are on the show!” And he said, “9”! I knew it!!! I then, of course, went on and formed my entire first place menu, deciding to serve, against the advice of the amateur chef Andy, the salad as the main and sesame seared ahi-tuna as the appetizer. And that is that! I shall apply tomorrow to be the next winning contestant on “Come Dine With Me”!

The Art of the Pole

Last week I finally made it to a pole dancing class. My beginner’s class was canceled so I was forced to go to the advanced class. I had no idea what to expect and lets just say it was a culture shock!

When I first went into the class I had the feeling I was amongst applicants for the local WACKOS! We were told to wear shorts, so I naturally put on my Nike workout running shorts, not my hot-pants underwear, which was the choice of most. One girl had on a purple and black lace bra with a see-through skimpy white top and matching purple and lace “shorts”. It left nothing to the imagination, especially when she was whipping upside down around the pole with her legs thrown apart into a split! I couldn’t help but think I should run up and put a 5-pound note in her underwear.

Then it was my turn! The instructor asked me how far along I was in learning different “tricks”. To which I replied “HUH??” So then she asked if I was “introverted”. To which I said “WHAT??” Then annoyed at how little I knew about pole dancing said, “Do you go upside down?” “HAHAHA NO!” She didn’t find this funny at all (it is a very serious business, this pole dancing).

She started me with the basic foundation Fireman’s step. It was simply swinging your legs and arms around the pole and sliding down as if you are on the playground. I, unfortunately, am so uncoordinated and lacking quite a bit of grace, found this move to be a major struggle! After trying a few more moves and “tricks”, to which I looked like a piece of limp spaghetti sliding down a pole, I decided to stand back and watch the others. And after watching the other girls seduce the metal pole, I was pretty certain I was at the warm up for a local strip clubs show that night.

Me and my Purple Biking Machine

On my quest to meet friends and keep myself busy, I decided to sign up for workout classes at Bournemouth University. I decided to take three classes, pole dancing, kickboxing, and Pilates, in hopes of meeting my future English best friend. I was not only going to be able to practice for my London to Paris bike ride in April on my ice purple, town and trail, snazzy bike, but I am also going to get my hot bod and sexy moves for my wedding! This is going to be FAB!

The first Monday of my first class came and my ever so logical Andy thought it would be best to drive me to class so I knew exactly how to get to the University by bike. There I was, about as excited and nervous as a 5 year old girl going to her first ballet class, with the Tom Tom navigating us to Bournemouth University, only to find it took us to the center of Bournemouth. There it was, the all knowledgeable Tom Tom, navigating us to turn down a pedestrian only street. I couldn’t believe there was an entire University smack dab in the middle of Top Shop, Subway, and Indian restaurants. How fantastic is this, when you are waiting for class to start you can shop for an outfit while eating Subway! Andy wasn’t nearly as naive. When we parked the car and started walking, he was sure we were not in the right place, or even the right part of town. He knew there was just no way BU is amongst all this. And he was right.... Bournemouth University was 5 miles away and in a completely different area of town! When I realized I had officially missed my first day of class all my excitement left me like a popped balloon.

Now for attempt two to make it to my next class, kickboxing, on Tuesday. I was again all excited and ready to get working out. I had been to the campus and seen the route home and was ready to buckle up my helmet, throw on my backpack, and head down the street on my purple speed machine! I woke up and saw it was a typical English winter’s day, very cold and very wet, but I was not going to let this get me down. So I got on my bike and headed toward BU. I only made it 500 yards before I fell off my mean machine and slammed into the wet pavement (how am I ever going to make it to Paris when I can’t even bicycle on a sidewalk without falling off!!!?). But I again was not going to let this get to my excitement of meeting my new best friend. Up I got, back onto my bike, and started off again for BU. But I got lost trying to find the center of town, which did I mention is where I go every day!?! I had no idea how to cross the railroad tracks (which when crossed is the center of town). I just kept cycling around trying to find the street where my hand written directions started. I just needed to find the road at the end of the shopping street where I walked endlessly day after day. After about 40 min of aimlessly riding back and forth on the same pavement clueless as to where to go, I noticed another cyclist coming up from an underground ramp with a sign above it labelled "subway". A subway to me is an underground train, but I soon discovered a "subway" in the UK was an underground tunnel to get under a busy street or railroad!

Then it got much worse. The rain came pouring down, the streets were so busy I felt like I was trying to ride my bike down I-95, and when I came to a three stemmed fork in the road I had no idea where to go. This was not on the self drawn map of directions, and I did not remember this from the drive with Andy. After a careful game of eeny meeny miney moe, I took the road in the middle. I rode down this for about 10 minutes until it ended and I was faced with two signs and one was pointing to Bournemouth. I took the Bournemouth route, kept riding, and after another 15 minutes was back at the three street fork! I couldn’t believe I had just made one huge circle! So this time I took the road to the right. After about another 15 minutes I came to another unfamiliar fork in the road. Not sure which way to go, I picked the right. Only to once again come to the same three stemmed fork in the road! That was it! I was cold, soaking wet, and on the verge of tears! This was horrendous! I circled the same block twice, fell off, and had been yelled at by little kids to get off the sidewalk! Screw kickboxing I was going home!

Attempt three. On Wednesday my perfect Andy managed to get off work early to ride with me to class. It was another cold and wet day. We left 2 hours before my class to make sure I got there on time. From the minute we started I was nervous. Andy, with his Lance Armstrong racing bike, zipped off down the road leaving me and my purple machine in its dust. I was left desperately trying to stay on the double yellow lines, as close to the curb as possible, with cars zipping past me at 50 miles an hour, while Andy raced along with the flow of traffic! This was a nightmare! Then we got to the mountainous bit of our journey! I had never in my life, which is understandable since I did grow up in Florida where I am pretty sure the entire state is downhill, climbed such a huge hill! By the third “hill” I demounted my bike and walked, at a much faster pace, up the hill. Then when I think it couldn’t get worse my bike brakes clamp down and are stuck to be permanently breaking. As if it wasn’t hard enough to pedal! After this, for a non-stop 2 hours, we finally made it to my Pilates class only to be yelled at by the instructor for being 5 minutes late and disturbing the class! Next week I am taking the bus!!!

The Cat-Walk

As I was pacing my almost fully furnished “flat” on the quest to keep myself busy, I decided to have my very own afternoon fashion show, right here at apartment 209! I had just finished cleaning my three rooms and bathroom for the third time this week when I began hanging and putting some clothes away. When I opened the closet doors I stood there staring into my closet and saw a little piece of fashion beauty... a White House Black Market silver and black dress glowing at me. A dress I bought over a year ago and never have had the chance to wear. As it dawned on me of this atrocious fashion crime I had committed, I knew I needed to do something. So to make it up to my stunning silk dress, I took it down, zipped it up and slipped into some ultra high and ultra amazing, six inch, snakeskin, platform, heals and walked the Orchard Plaza cat-walk! I may have stooped to a new low but it felt sooooo fantastic!! I walked around that apartment like I was Gisele Bundchen modelling for Prada. After strutting my stuff I poured a drink, turned on some music, and dug into Star magazine to see what my fellow models were up to. It was like my own cocktail party with me, myself and I. I was even close to making myself an extra dirty martini, until I looked at the clock and saw it wasn’t even 12. Probably best to leave the cocktail till later since it might justify me as a hopeless alcoholic if I were sitting alone in a fancy dress drinking before noon... but I can’t promise at my next show I won’t! After all, it would be at the runway after party and all in the name of fashion!!

Now I know how my Mom feels

It seems lately most of my everyday adventures have been in some way or another to do with clothes. When Andy and I got home from a wonderful holiday vacay in Florida with my family, there was a huge over flowing laundry basket staring me right in the eyes! I just couldn’t believe how much there was to do, since I could have sworn I did it all before I left! Then at a closer glance I noticed they were all over sized, smelly, and Andy’s. So for me this meant getting right back into my stay at home fiancée duties.


After hours and hours of washing clothes that once had been wet with sweat and now just smelled soured, I neatly folded the manly strips of cotton and went to putting them away. Now, since I have moved in, I must say, I have taken over my fair share of the only mini closet in our apartment, along with most of the space under the bed, with my clothes. This said, I have made it my duty to make sure Andy’s clothes are washed, perfectively folded, and organized in his designated clothes space. But no more!!


After months of playing Suzy housewife I have had enough. Every time I fold all his clothes, down to his extremely long black socks to his little European boxer shorts, he seems to destroy my neat organized stacks! I made a jean stack, t-shirt stack, workout/ bathing suit stack, and underwear stack, not including the hanging of all his collared shirts. Then, when on the prowl for one pair of spandex biker shorts, he manages to ruin all the stacks and even, somehow, manages to un-hang a few shirts in the process! It is as if he purposefully attacks his clothes like a dog attacks the yard for a buried bone! It is unreal! The rage just explodes from me when I see him open his side of the closet in search of something to wear. I now know how my mom must have felt when she washed and folded the laundry and watched us destroy her precious time in the swift motion of grabbing a shirt at the bottom of a neatly folded stack of clothes! I suppose the saying is true... “what goes around comes around”!

Journey to the Center of London

Before I could make my trek across the pond I had one minor thing I had to sort out... my passport. Not even a month before I was supposed to come home for the holidays my wallet was stolen, which stupidly contained my passport. After having to make a trip into London all alone, I learned my lesson. Don’t carry your passport in your wallet, don’t go to the only sketchy club in Poole, The Penthouse, and maybe don’t get your fun meter stuck on high with the entire club to see.

So about two weeks after all the contents of my wallet, except a beautiful picture of my mom and dad and a camera memory stick (a thief with a heart) and a trip into London to replace my passport, the embassy called to tell me all the contents, down to plane ticket stubs and old Publix receipts was sent to the embassy by a sanitary waste company nowhere near Poole. Now to the bad news, since this package contained all my personal cards, ID, and old passport it and my new passport could not be mailed to me. That meant another trip to London Town. I could have peed my pants in fear of trying to tackle the underground alone, again!

I figured I had plenty of time to prepare myself for my next adventure, since we had planned on leaving the UK after Christmas. This of course is until Andy tells me I will be going home asap. It was Sunday when Duncan, Andy’s brother who gets us standby tickets, informs him the only flight I could get before the 31st was that Monday! This meant in the morning I would need to make my trip into London and try to catch the flight after picking up my passport at the Embassy. I think I had a mini heart attack. What about my luggage, the tube at rush hour, and how on earth do I get to Gatwick from the center of London!?! Well there was no time to answer these extremely important questions or even curl up and cry, just time to pack!

So on Monday morning at 6am I got on the train to London with a 50 pound suitcase in the hopes that Andy would be able to get me the ticket home and that I can make it to Gatwick before the plane took off at 2pm! The fun began with trying to weasel my way off the train at Waterloo to catch the tube onto the Jubilee line, all while lugging this huge suitcase. Then I had to transfer from Jubilee to Central line and I think the most packed and busiest line of all the tube. I was like the little invisible girl no one wanted to look at in fear they might have to help! People did anything they could to push past me and my enormous bag and beat me on the train. It was as if my big huge bag had some kind of virus they might catch. Note to anyone travelling on the tube during rush hour; don’t take any large item with you because you will be shunned! Once I finally got through the train ride it was on to climbing a few flights of stairs while dragging my embarrassingly large bag with me. What a workout and relief when I finally made it to the streets of London.

I don’t usually get embarrassed too easily but when you are walking around the business district with a hand drawn map in one hand and a 50 lb paisley and flower print bag rolling behind you it’s another story. It was such a relief when I reached the embassy until I saw the 100 person line waiting to go in! All I could think is, “I will never make the plane”! It was already 9:15!! But I put on my brave face and got into line only to be told by another line stander the embassy won’t let you take any luggage inside. WHAT!?! So I got out of line walked down to a small and, quite frankly, scary little pharmacy, where according to the barley English speaking line stander, they would hold my luggage. Sure enough they had a little TV stand set up where there was a paper, telling of pharmaceutical things. When the paper was flipped over there were the conditions and fees to hold items for embassy visitors. I suspect this was all done illegally but I had no time to waste, so I left them with all my belongings for a grand total of 3 pounds!

Back at the embassy I learned I was standing in the wrong line, which is why it was so long! I was in the non-American line which was 99 people longer than the American line. I soon also discovered Americans, coming to pick up their passports, can take their luggage with them inside!!! After picking up my new passport, old passport, and cancelled credit cards I was ready to get my bag and race to Gatwick and somehow catch my flight! All this was shattered when I called Andy to report I had gotten the new passport and was on my way when he said he and Duncan were unable to get the flight. They instead got one for the next day!!

Radiator Rules

While back in sunny Florida for the holidays I was rudely welcomed with extremely cold weather. Instead of being able to wear little shorts, shoes that let my feet breathe, and tiny t-shirts I was forced to wear all the same sweaters and jeans I have been bundled up in the UK. This brings me to my latest laundry disaster...

As I put on my favorite thick, long, brown, cardigan I noticed something on the sleeve. It was hard white and glued onto the sleeve. So I took it to my mom, crowned the laundry queen after years of experience, and showed her this hard “spot” which I have gotten on so many of my clothes. I proceeded to tell her what it was...

Every time I hang my clothes on the radiator to dry, soap get stuck on them! I have told Andy we NEED to buy a new brand of soap because it doesn’t wash all the way out. So many of my shirts, sweaters, and pants have this white, hard, “soap” stuck on them. I can’t seem to wash it off or pick it off or scratch it off. It is just glued on my clothes. It is as if the soap dries like super glue on my clothes! Andy, knowing my laundry past, has paid no attention to my need of new laundry detergent, more so one that will wash out and stop sticking to my favourite pants, sweaters, and tops!

As I am telling my mom my detergent problems she is just staring at me in amazement. She asks, “Is the radiator on when you are hanging your clothes on it?” to which I respond, “DUH of course!! One, it dries them faster and two, it is too cold to not have the heat on!” Then laughing she tells me to check my label ... I tell her it is part cotton, part cashmere, and part spandex... Then the light clicked on...My clothes are not soapy they are melting!! The spandex in the clothes melts on the hot metal radiator!! Who would have ever thought clothes could melt!?!?! And that the radiator gets that hot!! Since growing up in a climate that has a range of season of hot and very hot, I have never known the rules of the radiator!