Friday, March 13, 2009

Better nate than lever!

Thanks to the sexy and talented Racquel at Smell the Glove for guesting today. I adore you more than Lady Gaga and strong martini's. That says alot!


Better nate than lever!

Meghan is sunning herself on the beaches of Cuba. I'm freezing my titsoff in the Maritimes (all Atlantic Canadians know that spring doesn'tcome until sometime in mid-June), but any bitterness that I may haveharboured has been nullified by the fact that she asked me to write aguest post. To say that I was pleasantly shocked would be anunderstatement, since my blog tends to be one long diatribe against Lady Gaga and the laundromat, but pleasantly is the operative wordhere. So let's go, yes?

Having a friend go to Cuba in Smarch is grounds for jealousy, but tobe fair I've had my time in the sun before; a few years ago I workedas an au-pair in Greece, and learned some valuable lessons along theway (none of which involved sunscreen. As an Irish chick who freckleswhen a candle is lit you would think that I would have coated myselfin zinc and Coppertone, but I decided that the best way to fit inwould be to burn myself to a delightful lobster-shell hue. Amazingly,it didn't happen. I actually tanned, for the first and possibly onlytime in my life. Go figure.)

It was Greece that broke my veg, albeit temporarily. It wasn't eventhat the food was irresistible (note: North American Greek salad isnothing like Greek Greek salad.) No, it was more that I didn't want tobe rude, shunning the provisions of my employers and subsisting on adiet of fatty yogurt and hard bread. We lived on the coast and I wouldsometimes swim out to the fishing boats, collecting nets of sardinesand God knows what else, asking them in broken Greek to bill us later.As I would backstroke back to shore clutching a net of still-livingfish, I was a mix of guilt and bliss, similar to how most Catholicsfeel when they have sex, but minus the tingling in my nether regions.Lesson learned? Greek fishermen will never actually send you a bill.Especially if you're a twenty-one year-old blonde in a polka dotbikini. I have yet to test this out in my home province, but don't think I haven't been tempted.

As for the opposite sex... now, I hate to stereotype, but the Socratesthing is dead-on. There's nothing a Greek dude likes more than abackdoor entrance. Now, there is not (and never will be) a back doorto Club Racquel, but again the blonde thing worked in my favour.Unfortunately, Greek men tend to be short. At 5'5", I'm far fromAmazonian, but most of the guys in Lavrio and Sounio made me feel likea runway model... and not because of my dashing looks. The other thingI learned is that The Sisterhood Of The Traveling Pants lies. Greekmen are not romantic. They're stoic enough to make you questionwhether or not Greece was actually settled by Russians, but thecatcalling and ass-slapping (again, I blame Socrates) is pure Europe.

Maybe the most important lesson I learned is the importance ofdressing up for the plane. I'm an old soul in that I refuse to wearpyjama or sweat pants out of the house, and nowhere was I rewardedmore for this than on British Airways. When I checked in, they tookone look at the dress I was wearing and asked if, since the flight wasoversold, I'd be willing to fly Business Class. Ummm... YES!!! I alsogot a pass for the pre-flight VIP lounge, where I drank a disturbingamount of nice Chard, enough that it was actually hard for me to boardthe plane without breaking out into song, dance or both. They did askme to change my shoes, however; apparently dirty Converse would havelooked amiss next to the cot-sized chairs and complimentary hot towels(side note: I still don't understand the purpose of hot towels, butGoddamn if they aren't the most luxurious thing next to love slavescoated in chocolate.)

And finally, and this can't be stressed enough: the most importantlesson I learned in Greece: when you get a giant, poisonous sea urchinstuck in your leg, diaper rash cream will not make it better. Nomatter how much praying you do. Neither will vinegar. Or moonshine. Orsand. Really, it's a better idea to just leave the wound alone insteadof trying random substances and kitchen products on it. Althoughpersonally, I kind of like the scar. It's like a free tattoo. Thespikes took almost six months to work themselves out, but the memorieswill last forever.

Kali spera, everyone.


Racquel Valencia said...

Why are there, like, no spaces here? That's weird.

Damn you, GMail!!

Slyde said...

i was going to suggest that having someone pee on the sting usually works...