Portovenere . . .

I had been so looking forward to visiting Cinque Terre. I had ferry schedules, train schedules, tons of notes on points of interest.



But Mother Nature had other ideas. We woke in Portovenere to 60 degree temps, choppy seas and nasty rain. The ship's tour to the five cities of Cinque Terre had been canceled, as had all the public ferries. No way was I missing a port, so new plans were called for but quick.

Donning our .88 cent, easily packable plastic ponchos from Wally-World and a camera cover, the 9TS and I boarded the tender for shore.





The wind and rain were wild and woolly . . . and cold, but eerily compelling. We walked to the top of Andria Doria Castle



and the views were just amazing. You could feel the ages through the hand wrought stones of the steps and the walls. The lover's locks,



the statuary,



Byron's Cave . . . now collapsed,



the views from here:



and here:



I can't imagine it looking any better than it did in the cold and wet. Note: Cinque Terre is still on my bucket list.

who'da thunk . . .

how gorgeous Corscia would be? First stop Bonifacio. Perfect weather. Perfect spot. But you already knew that if you saw the teaser photo I had posted earlier. Jaw dropping! We first saw the exotic limestone cliffs: too awesome for words especially if you're from a part of the world where the highest point is a bridge over the inter-coastal.



The 9TS, Katie and I took the tender to shore and wandered to the start of the Monte St-Roch steps, taking us from New Town to Old Town. Huffing and puffing we made our way up the stairs, layer by layer until we reached the apex and saw this:



and this:



and a little of this:



and maybe some of that:



wowsers!



It reminded me of the caldera at Oia, Greece. Sheer drops to a bay below. We meandered through Old Town and back to the top of the stairs. Katie wanted to take the other ridge path to see where it led, while the 9TS and I wanted to explore New Town. We agreed to meet at the bottom of the steps in 45 minutes.

A glass of wine on the ship was quite expensive at $11.00 per glass and since they had no rules against bringing your own aboard for in-room consumption, I was on the hunt. While normally most coastal towns boast five or six wine establishments, Bonifacio was sorely lacking in that department. I finally spied a few bottles from the small front window of a tiny local butcher shop. The 9TS and I decided to investigate. Their 'house' red was a mere 4.5 euros. Hummm, something did not compute, nor did the owner speak English. A few failed hand signals and we decided to return with Katie in tow. Unfortunately, her high school French did not include asking if a 4.5 euro bottle of wine was for consumption or cooking. Nothing ventured, nothing gained and we left with said bottle tucked securely under the 9TS's arm.

Thinking we'd continue last year's tradition of a local beer in every port, we stopped at a bay side cafe and placed our order. As it seems, one is not allowed to just order a libation, one had to order a meal as well. Huh? The owner was less than cordial as the waitress explained we had not understood the rules and we were allowed to drink under his scowling visage. Another couple from the boat went to sit and the owner asserted himself in broken English. They were as floored as we and tried to convince him to relent since there were plenty of vacant tables. He was not to be appeased. They were turned away and we slurped and ran.

After lunch on the boat, the 9TS and I headed to the pool deck for a little lounging and R&R. Slowly the temperature dropped and before we left, we were buried under beach towels, starting to chatter. Something was definitely happening to our beautiful weather.

. . . it must be added that later that night, the 9TS popped the cork and we, meaning I, thoroughly enjoyed the butcher's home brew!

here we go again, off down the road again . . .

with packed bags, we headed to Orlando to catch a flight to Dulles, and a red eye to Rome. We won't mention my disdain of United Airlines and its sardine mentality, or its lack of working reading lights or its I've seen cleaner bathrooms at truck stops . . . gee, I guess I just did. Oops!

One of the things I kvetched about, was being in Rome a second time and still not having had a chance to actually see the city. But extra days just weren't in the budget. Last year we were so late getting in, we almost missed the boat, this time we, and some 100+ other would be sailors were way to early . . . 8:00 a.m. . . . for the staterooms on the boat to be ready. They were in fact, just recently vacated by the last cruisers and to stall for time, the cruise lines put us on three motor coaches for a freebie tour of Rome. Color me insanely happy!!! Of course having been up for some 20 odd hours, some of our fellow travelers were not so pleased at this opportunity, especially Raymond, a dead ringer for Jeffrey Jones, who we had met in the D.C. airport, with his charming if not brow beaten wife, Wilma. Raymond was ballistic. Killing the messenger would be an overstatement. Red faced with steam escaping through unseen cracks in his skull, Raymond was hitting high C and about to have apoplexy. We skulked out to make sure we were on a different bus.



We stopped at a cathedral to walk around a bit and then headed to ancient Rome and passed the Coliseum!!!



Oh just let me faint now and get it over with. Katie was glued to one window while I was at another, snapping away faster than the cast of Grease doing Hand Jive. All we needed were white socks, white belts and polyester dresses and we would be the typical touristas. Did we care? Not one iota.

Meanwhile, another advocate of the 'get me to the boat quick team', kept scuttling up the aisle to demand we head for port "forthwith"!!!! Which we did after passing a few more amazing antiquities. Let me just faint once again.

Finally, we arrived in Civitavecchia. The rooms still were not ready which caused more belly aching but the dining room was open for lunch and who can resist meandering through a buffet of goodies causing much drool and wide eyes? At 3:00 p.m. we were all ensconced in our rooms snoozing away, except maybe Raymond, who I am certain had exploded somewhere into tiny bits of green foam.

Back on deck, we watched as the ship pulled out of port. Game on!!!

Happy Birthday, Kidlet . . .

Twenty-two years ago, I was in hurry up and wait mode. She took her own sweet time. So much time it seems that they decided to go in after her. 4:20 p.m and the doctor yelped, "We got her!" and much like reeling in a fish on a line, I had a brand new 5 pound, 11 ounce bundle of mystery and no manual. Why do they not come with manuals? Whose idea was that?

We survived four months of colic, the first day of school, string math, a broken elbow, a loony science teacher, cotillion, six years of martial arts, four years of track meets, IB, and a few years of college. You know what? I wouldn't trade a day. Well, maybe the ride home from Orlando with the stinky gym bags . . .

Love you monkey face!!!

MacSteamy and I . . .

I have a love/hate affair with my iron. Yep, I'm one of those people that still irons. Not often enough it seems, because when I do finally drag out MacSteamy there are piles and piles to be pressed. We did a poll one time on our women's loop about the ironer versus the non-ironer. The results? Only a few of us Dinosaurs do. The rest are wash and wear.

The problem is, I have nothing that comes out of the dryer ready to wear. How can that be? Even my sole permapress blouse needs a touch up. I iron T's and jeans, dresses, skirts, crops . . . not my undies in case you were wondering. Nor do I do linens, bathing suits or cats. But otherwise, if it goes on my body, there's a real good chance it has met with MacSteamy.

So what is the rest of the world wearing that comes out so presentable? Yes, I am a natural fiber freak. Cotton, linen, silk. The orlons, nylons, rayons and other on and ons feel funky . . . almost sticky. Maybe it is the Florida heat.

But I am curious, how do other people look so crisp and clean. Do they own their own dry cleaning establishments? Maids? Ironing elves that arrive unseen in the middle of the night? What is their secret? Will you share?

Oh and in keeping with the order of things this week, MacSteamy took a nose dive off the ironing board onto the bed from whence he slithered to the floor with a bang. He now has a dented plate edge and spits at me in revenge. Sigh. It is a complicated affair.

Is Murphy also a klutz?

We have well established that Ladies Home Journal will never give me their stamp of approval for home cleanliness. Having a black cat emerge from under the bed covered in gray dust balls might be their first clue, or the dirty clothes overflowing the laundry basket and creeping ever closer to taking up residence in the hallway. While most of the house has hard wood floors or tile, the stairs are still carpeted and I would bet right now there is enough fur to knit sweaters for both my beasties for the coming winter.

Well, there is a second substantiated rule in this house. When I do make a stab at cleanliness, Murphy steps in with his finest fastidious proposition and all hell breaks loose. So yesterday, a mere twenty-four hours after I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, I was in the pantry looking for some chips to go with my ham on rye. There on the top shelf, crunched under some Tostidos and a can of pistachio nuts, was the low fat Ruffles bag or what remained in it. I carefully moved the other bags of cellulite producing goodness and eased the bag off the shelf, but not before an entire bottle of Marsala wine did a triple gainer with a half twist and propelled itself onto my white tile floor. The crash froze me until I dared to look at the aftermath. The only shards of glass bigger than an kernel of corn where those still stuck to the label. Otherwise the sticky sweet amber colored liquid was spattered from one corner of the kitchen to the other with glass embedded everywhere including my left foot . . . tiny rivulets of red marking each piece. Gah!

I set about mopping, wiping, absorbing, patting, toweling and generally trying to clean up the sparkly goop. Mission finally accomplished . . . the floor is once again swabbed.

So is it my innate klutziness or Murphy living in my back pocket? Either way, I wish it would stop before the house is condemned . . . thankyouverymuch.

Oliver Twist . . .

I bought a new bag of cat treats at the vet's yesterday. I thought I would try them out on Ninja and Bear. I had been using them for years as they were my only option to get medicine into my wild child . . . Snoop. They are called Pill Pockets and I swear they are made of catnip.

Bear had just walked into the bedroom where I was ensconced, book in hand. I called him to come get a treat. Minor problem. Bear, at three still does not know his name. He used to come if I called 'Snoop'. He will come if I yell 'tuna'. But call 'BEAR' and he is suddenly deaf. Ninja will come when called, but my overgrown Baby Huey will not budge an inch. He did however, finally mosey over to the tune of a shaking treat bag. As the aroma of newly opened salmon meal wafted through the air, his nose quivered in delight, his tail twitched unbidden and his eyes sparkled. I held a treat for his inspection and released it just before his incisors munched my index finger.

Ninja is not by nature a treat eater but she was intrigued. She sniffed her gift and looked around. As Bear gulped his second goodie, Ninja got the idea and started to lick her prize. Unfortunately, she nudged it right off the side of the bed into the waiting jaws of my furry crocodile-mouthed Maine Coon cat. Slurp. Ninja, watched apathetically and wandered away, undaunted by the loss of her ort.

Bear, however has yet to leave. He is curled up under my left arm . . . making typing a bit difficult . . . every now and then he rolls over and gives me the look that clearly says, "Please ma'am, I want some more."