#EuROADtrip2016

For the next two weeks, I’m going to take a short break from New York City and dive into another adventure: Scotland, London, and Iceland.

My youngest sister Grace and I are flying to Scotland on the day I’m “penning” this. In Glasgow, we’ll meet up with Alice who is, in short, one of my closest friends from the high school years, my previous Eurasia travel buddy, and a teacher in London. We’ll tour the Highlands and visit Glencoe, Fort William, Isle of Skye, Inverness, and Aviemore. It will most likely rain the entire time we’re gallivanting around this country—but I packed a poncho! And yes, there will be castle hunting and Scotch tastings.

Grace flies home five days later on March 30, while Alice and I continue south to London. I’ll see where she lives, the school she teaches at in Surrey, as well as spend a pinch of time in the city centre. After sipping some tea (and maybe doing laundry), we’ll fly west to Reykjavik. 

In Iceland, Alice and I will meet up with New York friend, ex-East Village neighbor, and travel extraordinaire, Heather. None of us have visited this country of “fire and ice” before, so we’ll start with the basics: Blue Lagoon, Golden Circle, the southern town of Vik, and Jökulsárlón Glacier Lagoon. We hope to catch a glimpse of the Northern Lights, but the chances are 50/50 this time of year. I’d also like to spot a puffin and a wild Icelandic horse.

After a six-day road trip through this unbelievably epic looking country, I fly back to Virginia to see one of best friends from college get married. I’m also honored to be one of Steph’s bridesmaids, so even when my trip is over I have something incredible to look forward to back in the States.

(This celebration also makes packing an adventure in itself. Can someone remind me to text Boyfriend and tell him to pack my dress shoes? They don’t fit in this blasted suitcase!)

We’re praying for safe travels, decent weather, and remarkable memories. Also, a tremendous “thank, you kindly” to everyone who sent us travel advice, restaurant suggestions, and lodging tips.

I’ll be a bit disconnected from the world, but will most likely buy a SIM card with a tiny data plan. So… I’ll see you on Instagram ;) 

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The (Hidden) Paths of Santorini

Tip #1: The Greek Islands do not believe in signs.

I stared at the map again; then flipped to page 219 in my guidebook. “A magical way to reach the village [of Oia, Greece] is along a cliff edge walkway that rambles north from Firá… You’ll pass sage green slopes splattered with wild flowers, rich red- and coffee-colored earth and views of blue, blue sea.”

I looked up and down the dirt road, and plucked a sweaty piece of hair from my forehead. You can politely assume that I too looked “magical.”

“Alice, let’s ask this guy where the footpath is.” My travel buddy and I explained to the teenage boy what we were looking for, only to be told he’d never heard of it. We then walked toward the coast, confused, and began to follow a stone street through a quaint marketplace. Finally, we found two women who knew of this ever-elusive footpath. 

“You’re on it!” one of them said with a grin. “But it’s very far till Oia, and too hot.”

This was not the first time we’d been told that Mediterranean weather would destroy us. Every morning, Alice and I munched on Greek yogurt with sweetbread at our B&B in Perissa Beach. And every morning, the House Mamma would ask us our plans, then exclaim, “Where are your hats!?” It was my assumption she’d seen many pale-skinned guests turn into depressed lobsters.

“Thank you, we’ll be fine. We have water!” Alice and I said to our helpers. They wanted to know how much water, how much sunscreen, and how much time we had. This interrogation was only slightly concerning—but we passed their quiz and began our journey.

Tip 2: Always listen to Greek mothers.

“Going to DIE,” I said dramatically to Alice a few hours later. 

The views of Santorini and had been more than breathtaking. But after walking through a pristine resort town, full of infinity pools with sunbathers sipping cold cocktails, and then skirting the edge of a cliff, we’d arrived at a steep hill full of hot pumice rocks that burned through my shoes. 

Hot rocks on the long road to Oia. Don't wear sandals. 

I looked like a fool, hopping up the slopes of the coast like an ungraceful mountain goat, with a heavy camera attached to my neck. There were only two sips left in my water bottle, and yet we had hours till our final destination. To make matters more absurd, we'd lost the "magical" path again.

(Note: It was at this exact moment that I thought about those Israelites who wandered the desert for 40 years—how utterly terrible.)

“Tomorrow. Beach. Vacation,” I said through dry lips. I knew Alice would agree. The heat was truly incredible, killing off our conversation until we found a patch of shade under a lone tree.

Seven miles and four some hours post start time, we dragged our feet into a taverna on the cliffs of Oia. I ordered a beer while Alice sampled their honey-encrusted baklava. We didn’t talk much as our bodies unwound. 

Then that beautiful globe in the sky began to sink into a blanket of reds, pinks, and purples. The sun moved faster in Santorini—it appeared to be diving into the horizon. We watched from the roof of the taverna, completely transfixed. How could that be the same sun I admired back in New York City?

Tip 3: Cliffside hikes in Santorini are always worth it. But bring at least 2 bottles of water—and read Tip 2 again. 

[Editor's Note: This blog post is centered around a 2014 trip to Athens, Santorini, Mykonos, and Istanbul. I finally decided to blog about it a year later. Below are some photos and tips, in case you ever decide to visit!]

While in Santorini, Alice and I stayed at the Santa Barbara Hotel, about a block away from the black sand coast of Perissa Beach. Breakfast was included for about $35/night. 

One of the resorts in Fira we walked past. How we longed to jump into that pool... 

On the hike from Fira to Oia, you'll pass several pockets of resort towns, go over a few rock-filled hills, and occasionally lose the "path." Tip: Just follow the coast and keep going north.

Cliffs on the outskirts of Fira. 

The case for sunscreen. 

Santorini was formed by a volcano (not pictured), hence all the pumice rocks and multicolored beaches around the island. 

When you Google Santorini, the town of Oia is what comes up first. Note: The sunsets are world-famous, so pick your viewing spot out early. People start arriving about an hour before the sun sinks.

Alice's baklava, which I definitely sampled. 

#WorthIt

Those Jazzy Days of Summer

The Fashion Girls of 7th Avenue are always easy to spot. They’re skinny little things, with striking angles in strange places. Diet Coke in hand, they wisp down the street. But their faces are a little too sallow, and by the end of the day their chic messy buns often just look… messy. 

I don’t envy them, I thought while consuming Taco Bell from the passenger seat of a rented Tahoe. The Fashion Girl in my line of vision was perched on the sidewalk, struggling with an umbrella that refused to open. We drove on and I silently wished her all the best.

A mash-up of Phantogram and Vallis Alps played as we stuffed our faces with “tacos” and “burritos.” Three guys in the backseat laughed at something seemingly hilarious, while a sudden storm exploded in the night sky. The SUV barreled away from the city, the Poconos our distant destination. 

In my mind, there’s a jazzy song from the 1920s playing all summer long in New York. The cadence of crowds on-the-go fits the high notes of exploding trumpets; our feet always moving to a four-beat rhythm. But once away from the city's addictive pull, everything slows down... 

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The next morning I awoke to the smell of bacon rising from the kitchen of our borrowed lake house. My fan hummed as I changed into a bathing suit and shorts—why bother with clothes when it’s that warm? After brushing my teeth, I threw my makeup bag and sundresses into a suitcase, where they would sit for the rest of the weekend.

Ah, freedom. Lashes undone and my hair in a true messy bun, I chowed down on food in the Pennsylvania heat. (And I silently wondered if that Fashion Girl with the pesky umbrella liked being skinny as much as I liked bacon. #BreakfastThoughts) 

For the next three days, I didn’t change out of my swim clothes—that’s the beauty of vacation. Yes, there was a shower at some point. But not even an hour went by post-shampoo before I was back in the lake.

We lounged in giant inner tubes by day, collecting golden freckles or weird sunburns. At night we’d cook sizzling burgers and mash limes for homemade margaritas. If you’d peeked into our cottage, you’d have seen coral tee shirts, scuffed up flip-flops, and several gin drinks lying about. Oh… and also a piñata from Walmart.

It’s in these moments that I sense the comfort of summer.

That familiar feeling, charged with nostalgia and the unexpected, haunts me all year. In my admittedly bias opinion, summer is the most tangible of the seasons. It’s salty, sweaty, and the East Coast humidity seeps into your every pore. 

But something about warm weather makes us more agreeable to anything of the slightest interest. “Yes” to one more drink; “yes” to seeing the sunrise; “yes” to it all.

Coming back from vacation is always slightly depressing—but at least in July when you return to New York, she welcomes you with a warm, dewy hug. Then that jazzy song in my mind starts playing once again, and the city dances, dances, dances…

The Fashion Girls of 7th Ave. tango with the Finance Boys of Park. Manhattanites drum up their nerve, jiving to hotspots in Brooklyn. Wealthy Upper East Siders salsa off to the Hamptons…
And everyone left just keeps dancing.
As fast as they can.

The city dances, dances, dances—with a cocktail in its hand.