The Do-Over: An Odyssey in Seven Parts

Oh, hello.

Yes, I’m back -- but you guys, it was a close decision. In fact, when Sunday rolled around and it was time to pack my bags for the return trip, I was about one beer away from renting an island apartment, sending a “smell ya later!” email to my place of employment, changing my name to Drunkface Vacationpants, and living out the rest of my days from beneath a pile of feta cheese.

However, as reluctant homecomings go, one in which I trade Aegean Island Paradise for Autumn in New York really isn’t so bad. In the meantime, though, I’ll be attempting to recap the most exciting, interesting, and otherwise blog-worthy points of our trip in prose and pictures.

Here we go!

The Do-Over Honeymoon: Eight days of stone stairs, sweet sun, and wine and beer and cats.

Part I: Leaving Here

Here’s where I confess that, all evidence to the contrary, I hate traveling. Oh sure, I like being in other places. But the “traveling” part? The rush to the airport, and the dehumanizing line-shuffle, and the liquids-in-three-ounce-containers, and the ten hours of sitting captive behind some man who is dressed quite elegantly but who is nevertheless emitting farts so foul that it seems like they might actually bring down the plane?

Yeah. That part, I could do without.

But on the day we left, things were going so smoothly that I was feeling cautiously optimistic – our baggage was checked, our boarding passes were in hand, and no beefy TSA official had materialized at the security checkpoint and demanded to search our orifices for explosives. And as we boarded the plane and settled into our seats, I was ready to sing the praises of the entire airline industry… and then, of course, came the following announcement from the overhead speakers.

“Uh, folks,” said the pilot, who was clearly trying to sound authoritative but whose voice carried distinct overtones of I-have-no-idea-what-the-fuck-is-going-on, “We’re gonna ask you to, er, deplane. Yes, everybody off the plane, please.”

Thirty minutes of mass confusion later, everyone was ushered back onto the plane with the explanation that “there was an equipment problem” but “a test confirmed that things were fine”, which is not exactly a comforting turn of phrase given that people cheat on tests and ohmygodwearegoingto DIEEE.


Part II: Getting There

Surprise: We didn’t die.

Also: While I am sure that people did fart on the plane, I never smelled it. Luck!

After a ten-hour flight to Athens and a 45-minute hop to the Cyclades, we finally arrived in Oia. I’ll let it speak for itself.






Heaven. No, I mean it. HEAVEN. Look at this place. Could it be any more adorably Mediterranean?


We rented a traditional apartment in the village, which is built into a hillside overlooking the caldera and the long eastward curve of Santorini. I spent most of my time out here, on the private veranda, pretending to be Esther Williams.




An interesting fact: Traditional architecture in Oia places the bathroom outside the living quarters, such that one must get up, exit the room, and walk across the pitch-black porch and up a small staircase in order to have a midnight pee.


Another interesting fact: For reasons unknown, it is strictly verboten to actually throw toilet paper into the toilets in Oia. Instead, they give you a trash can. Yes, a trash can.



Part III: Free Cats for Everyone

On our first night, we were joined by a surprise guest. Ladies and gentlemen, please say hello to Stavros Beercan, The Vacation Cat.



Stavros showed up on our veranda looking for love, and we were only too happy to adore him with all the delirious enthusiasm of a pair of drunk sorority girls. After several hours of petting and purring and cheese-feeding, we said goodnight and went to bed, where we laughed about what a one-night whore he was. We did not expect to see him again.

But he was there when we woke up.



And the day after that.



Ultimately, Stavros spent the better part of every day sitting on our veranda, and also showed up on our last morning to say goodbye. I miss him.



Part IV: The Long Walk


A winding staircase built into the hillside at the western end of the island leads down to the Oia harbor. In a tavern on the waterfront, we sat down to have lunch and watch the boats. Our waiter was very charming – which is how he convinced us that what we really, really needed to do that day was EAT A FIVE-POUND, FRESHLY-CAUGHT GROUPER.

This is the hideous aftermath of that decision.



Why, you ask, are my hands covered with fish in this picture? Because just when we thought we’d finally put away the last of it, our waiter sauntered past and cast a skeptical glance at the plate.

“What?” I wheezed, clutching my stomach. “Didn’t we do a good job?”

The waiter raised his eyebrows, gestured at the fish carcass, and said, “Well, if you were Greek, you would have eaten those other parts.”

“Oh yeah?!” I said, and then, not wanting to commit the hideous sin of UNGREEK fish-eating, tore open the fish head with my bare hands and ATE IT.

As it turns out, fish cheeks are the best part.

One grouper, ten anchovies, and three beers later, it was time to climb back up.



There are 528 steps in that staircase. We know this because, just as we started the arduous climb back up, a cheerfully malevolent Englishman clapped Brad jovially on the shoulder and said, “Just 528 steps to go! Ha, ha!”

Ha, ha.


Stopping halfway to pant.



The view from up top.
When we finally got up here, Brad said, “Now let’s take a cab back down to the bottom and harass that English dude when he starts to climb up.”


Part V: Literary Binge

Private veranda + Aegean breeze + hours of afternoon downtime = Reading heaven. I finished five books during this trip – Lolita, The Alienist, One Hundred Years of Solitude, the new Dan Brown book, and My Sister’s Keeper. (Recommended: all but the last, which was so much poorly-developed and manipulative shittery that I would have chucked it out the window, had I not been on a plane at the time. Ugh.)



Part VI: Downfall



If you’ve been feeling jealous over having been stuck at your desk for the past week while I was off jet-setting and climbing stairs and mauling fish faces, this is where you breathe a sigh of relief and say, “Well, at least I didn’t spend my Friday night throwing up every half-hour until the sun came up!”

Yeeeeah.

The paella I had ordered didn’t taste quite right, but our waitress kept looking worriedly at my untouched plate and asking me whether everything was okay, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. So I ate it.

Two hours later, I was sweating, feverish, and puking every twenty minutes. I threw up in the sink. I threw up in the trash can. I threw up into the storm drain on our veranda when it turned out that the outdoor bathroom was just too damn far away. In between throwing up, I hallucinated that a large, flesh-colored Fisher Price Person was standing at the foot of my bed and staring at me.

I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.

Suffice to say: The only thing worse than getting food poisoning is getting food poisoning on vacation in a place where the bathroom is outside the house, and furthermore, where the soiled evidence of your spewing misery cannot even be flushed down the damned toilet.


And also that I have seen the Angel of Death, and he has plastic hair and no arms.


Part VII: Rejuvenation

One of food poisoning’s parting gifts is that, for the next 48 hours, you are reduced to a plodding, exhausted, easily-winded shell of your former self. I got sick on Friday, which meant that our planned Sunday activity – to hike the cliffside path from Oia to the larger town of Fira – had to be scrapped. Which is disappointing.

Bright side of the disappointment: Taking the opportunity to wander down a hidden path on the hillside below our apartment, and discovering that it leads to the sea. And so, 24 hours after the Worst Vacation Experience Ever, on the afternoon before we left, I skipped down a sinuous trail lined with crumbled reddish stone, kicked off my shoes, and plunged headlong into the Aegean.



The sensation of floating on the surface of an infinite, impossible depth is semi-unnerving – you wonder what else might be down there, and you feel a bit like bait – but not unnerving enough to stop swimming. Look at the blue.


And finally, here we are, tanned and freckled and watching the sunset on our last day:




Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Do-Over: Successfully completed.

THE END.