London

Two weeks in London was the perfect way to end the trip. It was such an easy city to be in and it was beautiful. I was reminded of Paris, the two having very similar architecture, and histories that wove together so tightly.

On our first full day there, we took part in a walking tour led by New Europe. It's all donation based and very casual, with lots of other backpackers, so we were a very young crowd traveling together through the city. It was the perfect way to get acquainted with such a big and overwhelming place. Without the tour, we maybe wouldn't have realized just how easy it is to walk from one area to another. I think people associate London with being a crazy city that consists of the Tube as the only way to get around. And while we spent a ton of money on our Oyster Cards, we walked so many places.

We also lucked out with our accommodations. On a gamble, I had booked the cheapest London apartment that I could find, having carefully weighed the cost of an apartment versus hostel. Thankfully, the apartment won! But. Having gone with the least expensive option I was super nervous about where we would find ourselves living for two weeks (don't tell Amy how nervous I was). Amazingly enough, the apartment was in one of the poshest neighborhoods of London - South Kensington. I regret not having taken a picture of our street, with the row of white townhouses, all matching perfectly, and the rows of luxury cars out in front. Also, it had a private garden in the back that we had access too, allowing for picnics and it turns out, drinks with our landlords on several occasions.

Our landlady, Holly, was the best. She opened the door to two girls with huge backpacks and bags and probably a ragged appearance, but didn't seem to mind -- after the shock wore off. We didn't realize at that point that Holly and her husband were socialites of some sort and that Holly rented out the basement flat as a little side business, just something to do, but also probably part of the reason that the rent was so low (they don't really need the business... if you get my drift). But Holly, bless her heart, decided to invite us up for cocktails that evening and we graciously accepted.

Over the two weeks, we had drinks with Holly and several neighbors multiple times. It was so fun to get a spur of the moment phone call inviting us up and we felt really honored to even be included with the company that she kept. It was all way too lovely and surreal for two backpackers who were used to hostels and cold sandwiches. Thank goodness we had packed some nice clothes (and also done a little shopping).

Our days were spent going to just about every museum we could handle. Britain thankfully has free admission to their public museums, so we had the best time going to the Tate Modern and the Tate Britain, as well as the National Gallery and a few others. Some of the best art is in London. We also decided to go the West End one night to see a play, since London has such a huge theater scene. We had bought the cheapest tickets to Wicked that we could find and no surprise, they were in the very back row of the theater in the balcony. Regardless, it was wonderful.

I love London. I would go back in a heartbeat.

Scotland

Three weeks away from our departure date back to the US, Amy I caught a train from Manchester Station (home of the friendly emergency room staff) and made our way to Edinburgh. It was so nice to be in the UK, it was a great change and everything felt so civilized. Everyone with accents, some so thick it was hard to understand, but everyone extremely friendly.

The train ride went faster than others and before we knew it, we were on a bus on our way to the home of Judy and Goff -- a couple that Amy knew through mutual friends who had graciously agreed to let us stay at their home for the week. Looking back, this was such an amazing stroke of luck, because the GBP kicked our butt. I'm so glad that we didn't have to pay for a week of lodging in addition to food and activities. It allowed for us to do some great things in Scotland with our 'extra' money.

In addition to seeing one of our favorite museums (in Scotland no less! The National Gallery) we also bucked up (literally) and went into the highlands on a tour. It was a relatively big decision to be outright touristy, but seeing as there is practically no other way to see the highlands, it was a good choice. Despite, however, the bus breaking down for an hour and a half and the group of women with terrible BO who, of course, sat next to us.

The rest of the week was spent roaming around Edinburgh and taking in a truly beautiful city. Edinburgh is one of the oldest cities in the world and the things we learned about the origins and history of it made me fall in love even more. I'm relieved actually, since I was always so mean to my dad about how lame it is to be Scottish. Now, I can honestly say that I'm happy to be from the Robertson clan, even though we're pretty sure our side was kicked out of the country for being criminals...

All in all, I'm in love with Scotland, and I'm pretty sure Amy was enamored as well.

We got knifed!

It’s not as bad as it sounds, but it did include an ambulance ride and a trip to the hospital after a very long night.

First off, the airport in Heraklion is one of the most frustrating places I have ever experienced, run by complete idiots. Amy and I were extremely early for our 3:40am flight because the buses to the airport stopped running at 10:30pm. And seeing as buses are the cheapest way to get around town, we arrived almost 5 hours early for our flight on Thomas Cook, hereafter known as the worst airline ever.

When the airline finally called our flight for check in, we waited in line only to be told they couldn’t check us in with our confirmation number and passports. What? The conversation between the idiot at the desk and I went something like this:

Him: Um, yeah, ya see, this won’t work, I need the ticket.
Me: Well, where do I get the ticket if not from you, the ticketing agent?
Him: Ummm, well it’s an e-ticket that is printed out from a machine.
Me: Yeah, I figure, but where are the machines, then?
Him: Ummmmmmm, I don’t know… maybe go ask that desk over there and they will print you out a ticket from your email?
Me: You mean to tell me that you have no record of my reservation in the computer system using my confirmation code and passport?
Him: Computer? We don’t keep that information in the computer!

It went on and on like this until we went to a second desk where two extremely bored looking women attempted to log on to the internet to print out a ticket from the website. Apparently, if you don’t come to the airport with a ticket from your email printed out from Thomas Cook, that very same company doesn’t possess the means to check a customer in. Absurd. Seeing as we haven’t made contact with a printer in 2 months and the ticket was emailed only days before, this was just a little unrealistic. Anyways, the aforementioned desk jockeys “didn’t have access” to the site, so they sent us OUTSIDE the airport to weird little kiosks with a different type of airline representative. She was equally brain dead. That conversation went a lot like this (really, I couldn’t make this stuff up):

Me: I have a confirmation code and a passport to check in to my flight, but they’re telling me I need a ticket, which I don’t have.
Her: Well let me see what you do have. (I hand her a slip of paper with my confirmation number written on it)
Her: This isn’t a ticket!
Me: No, it’s a slip of paper with my confirmation code written on it. If I had a ticket to hand you, I wouldn’t be asking you for a ticket…
Her: Well where am I supposed to get a ticket?
Me: From the computer of something?
Her: (looks at and motions to her badly uniformed body incredulously) Well, where, where is a computer on me? Do you see a computer on me? (Patting herself down, like it’s hidden in a fold…)
Me: No, of course not on you, but within the records or something? Every other airline we’ve flown has been able to use our confirmation code to check us in…
Her: Well unless you have something else from us, we don’t have anything that we can provide. (Aside: Do you see the logic in this? They want us to provide them with information they would have had to have given us in order for us to provide it?)

In the end, I have an old flight confirmation from before we left and she essentially transfers all of that information on to another piece of paper by hand and tells us it’s a ticket. So ridiculous. But it’s a green light to get on the plane so who cares if they’re a bunch of idiots as long as it gets me to Manchester?

We manage to sleep through the majority of the red-eye flight and wake up in England where things make sense again. As we’re hauling our 30-pound backpacks off the belt, Amy winces and says that she thinks something has just cut her leg. Sure enough, she looks down at her thigh and she’s spewing blood. Without many other options, I give her some pathetic looking band-aids from my bag and she limps off to the bathroom, neither of us knowing what’s cut her.

Meanwhile, I’m left guarding the load of possessions and start looking at Amy’s bag to see what on earth could have cut her – we’re both thinking it’s some piece that’s broken on her bag in transit and become jagged, something small and fluke-y. Low and behold, sticking out of a side pocket, piercing the fabric of her bag is the blade of a knife. Her knife, the same one we fought off the naked guy with in Spain!

Somehow in transit on that shitty airline, it’s come undone from its safe, folded position, has cut through her bag and is now sticking out of the side. Now realizing that she’s been cut by a knife, not just something small and superficial, I leave the bags where I can see them and poke my head in the ladies room door of baggage claim – far enough to shout to Amy that it was a knife that she’s been cut with. She’s shocked, but by this point, not enough to disbelieve it since the cut won’t stop bleeding and has soaked through the band-aids and the tissue that she’s wrapped around her leg. This continues for a bit and after grabbing shorts for her to change into, I go to call an airport paramedic while she guards the bag and sops up the blood – all very brave and calm though, you’d never know she had a knife wound by looking at her from the waist up…

The paramedic shows up (finally, you would think they weren’t supposed to act with urgency) takes one look at the cut and says he’s sending us to the hospital – she’ll need stitches.

Okay. We can handle that. No big deal, the emergency room, but how should be get there? An ambulance, he says, like we’re crazy to hint at anything else.

That’s when this really becomes an emergency, because the last thing either of us can afford is an ambulance ride. A few thousand dollars for an ambulance ride is definitely something that would go in the “unexpected expenses” category and would wipe us clean. I ask him about procedure for Americans and we’re both about to say that we’d rather walk to the hospital than pay for an ambulance, when he says with amusement “It’s Britain, love. It’s free!”

Thank God. Sign us up then.

Amy’s wheeled (yes, wheeled) out to the ambulance while the paramedic and another guy help me with bags, all the while complaining about how heavy they are, and load us up into the back of the ambulance. Upon arrival, Amy is sent to triage where she’s called “Lovey” in nearly every sentence and I read tabloid magazines. After 30 minutes, we’re released with a proper bandage and the British equivalent of Steri-Strips in lieu of stitches (thank goodness, easier logistically) and we hitch a taxi to the train station for our 10:15 train.

Oddly enough, it’s our easiest travel day yet. Which really says something about our travel days, but also says a lot about how well we’ve learned to roll with the punches, or stab wounds, in this case. We made our train, Amy was a trooper, and we spoke the native tongue – it’s enough to make us pledge ourselves to the motherland for eternity. After 7 days of wrapping her leg in plastic wrap to shower, she’s allowed to take off the bandage and hopefully the 2-inch gash will only scar slightly since the blade was so nice and sharp. It didn’t slow her down though, really a credit to her. And I did promise to buy her a lollie if she was good and brave.

Stab wound

Jealous?

Greece: Athens in 24-hours

Only one relatively easy day of travel (tram, train, plane, taxi, feet) stands between Italy and one of the most beautiful places we've seen: Greece.

Having learned to expect the unexpected, Amy and I leave plenty of time to allow for difficulties while in transit between point A and Point B. It's not a straight line EVER and it's not the quickest, but with luck, it's the cheapest.

A mere 8-hours after closing the door on our apartment in Rome, we set our bags down in yet another youth hostel in Athens. Honestly, our part of town was a relative ghetto, but it was only a short metro ride to the good stuff and cheap (which is all we care about). The Placa District is the neighborhood below the Acropolis and it's beyond charming. Normal streets open up on to ruins and quite literally, they have built their lives and businesses around history.

Our only night in Athens left just enough time to find a rooftop restaurant under the Acropolis and our only day was filled with walking the streets, exploring the Acropolis and then hoofing it back to the hostel to pick up our bags and catch a plane to Santorini. We lucked out, however, because the one day we were in Athens ended up being a holiday (no mention of this in the guidebooks, however) but for once, a holiday was a blessing - free admission to everything.

More time in Athens would have been great, but I think we both feel pretty good about having used our time wisely. And with the itch to lay in the sun and see the Islands, Athens was 24-hours well spent.

One last bottle of Prosecco

Before leaving Italy, we had one last item on the agenda and it involved a bottle of prosecco, hopefully to be shared with friends from college who had just arrived in Rome.

Having packed everything up and prepared for our early morning as much as possible, we walked to Piazza Navona to wait for our friends. Coincidentally, we've been able to meet up with two sorority sisters while in Rome, both of whom grew up with Amy and the girls' mothers are best friends to Amy's mom. Sarah (younger than us by 3 years and studying abroad in Rome) is the same friend we had over for dinner at our apartment and Katie (our year) and their moms were flying in to town with a 48-hour window to meet for drinks before we went on to Greece and they retrieved Sarah from her spring term abroad.

After a flurry of messages trying to arrange a time to meet, we told them where we would be celebrating our last night in Rome, and thankfully they met us with enough time to share a second bottle. It was great seeing Katie since after graduating college, we all have such hectic lives, but Rome gave us a chance to catch up and seeing their moms again was an added bonus.

Packing Up, Shipping Out

Crazy to say it, but it's time to get out of Rome and into Greece.

I'd planned to do so many posts on what it's like to just be here in the city, but after getting our computer back and catching up on all that needed to be caught, I'm spent.

Know this though: One month in Rome has been a wild ride for us. Not in the way it would have been when we were 20, but in a way that I think we can both look at and say, "This was good, I'm better for it."

Fact of the matter is that we're growing up and this trip has made us look that fact straight in the eyes. While we've been here we've gotten news of engagements from our friends back home, weddings have happened that we've missed and housewarmings have been rsvp'd with regrets to our newly mortgaged friends. We're starting to turn in to managers, husbands and wives, homeowners and teetotalers.

The contrast between "us" and "them" right now is dramatic, but only for these three months. In July we get back to our lives, or some version that resembles it, but for right how, on to Greece.