On the Verge of Holiday

“The use of traveling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are.” - Samuel Johnson



I can remember sitting in French class my Freshman year of high school and staring at the picture of the Louvre that graced the cover of my textbook. I never though I'd actually get a chance to see it in person, but I could imagine it. I could so easily close my eyes and see the Roman ruins scattered about Italy and the beaches of Greece with the white and blue buildings speckled across the cliffs. And, even now, I can lay in my bed before I fall asleep and try to imagine all the places I'll see on my vacation that's so near.
Three weeks from today, my stint as an American waitress in London will be over and I'll have nearly four weeks to enjoy what Europe has to offer. Sure, it'll be with an organized tour of 20 year olds drinking their Euros away, but it's also seeing everything I studied in school come to life. How I'll react to seeing the canals of Venice for the first time or the coast of Kotor Bay in Croatia, I have no idea. I'm assuming I'll be either shocked and amazed or simply disappointed in a "this is it?" kind of way. But knowing me, the girl that leaped across border control in Spain after getting my passport stamped for the third time, I'm sure I'll be more than overwhelmed.
The past week, I've been annoying customers with my mere excitement just to leave on this trip. I've been telling them where I'm going, what I'm excited to see, and I even demonstrated how I want to pose when I see the Leaning Tower of Pisa (because I WILL get that picture!). The customers who are most fun to have these converstations with are the ones that have really great advice about Europe. Their the ones that write down what to see and what to skip while I'm touring. I talked to a man a few weeks ago that suggested I take an unadvised right turn at the entrance of St. Mark's Basillica and sneak through a door and up a flight of stairs, ending up on a balcony that over looks all of St. Mark's Square. He said nobody really knows about it, but it's the best view he found. I had another man tell me to go to the top of the Arc de Triumph, because everyone does the Eiffel Tower, but the Arc was just as impressive. And last night, I spoke with a table of people for nearly 20 minutes about how amazing Italy and Prague are. One of the older ladies at the table, just before they left, came up to me and said, "You can have a drunken weekend vacation anytime you want, but how often can you come to Europe and see all the history you read about while growing up?" Well, I actually think her British phrase was, "a weekend on the piss," but her point was taken and much appreciated. So, while everyone back home will be thinking I'm sitting on a beach drinking gin and tonics in the hot, Ionian sun, I'll really be seeing the history of civilations past and learning to appreciate the art and architecture of another continent. But I'm sure I can find spare time for gin and tonics....

talk to everyone again soon! love, jill

The Grass is Always Greener in my Wimbledon Whites

“New Yorkers love it when you spill your guts. But spill your guts at Wimbledon, and they make you stop and clean it up.” -Jimmy Connors

I don’t want to say my only reason for coming to England was to visit the Wimbledon tennis grounds, but I’ll admit it was on top of my list of places to see. The Wimbledon tournament itself is a far cry from the drunks cheering at the Australian Open or the sticky clay courts at Roland Garros. And the US Open is even too revolutionary for the traditions that are upheld on the grass courts in London. Wimbledon, to me, is cheering on Roddick nearly four years ago only to see him lose to Roger Federer (but who hasn’t lost to Fed?). That same year, I saw a 17 year old Maria Sharapova beat Serena Williams for her first Grand Slam win. And, of course, last year Rafa Nadal put an end to an epic 5 years straight of Federer Wimbledon trophies. But the past five, or even ten years doesn’t define Wimbledon. While I’m too young to re-live the days of John McEnroe’s outcries (“You have GOT to be kidding me!”) or Bjorn Borg’s short shorts and Jimmy Connors’ red hair flopping as he pushed a backhand down the line, I am lucky enough to have grown up in the days of Pete Sampras, Andre Agassi, Lindsay Davenport, and then the William’s sisters hit the stage. I saw Andy Roddick turn pro when I was still in middle school, Sharapova win slam after slam throughout my high school years, and then the Serbian revolution of Jelena Jankovic, Ana Ivonovic, Novak Djokavic, and all the other “vic”’s in the past three years. For the longest time, I couldn’t figure out why I would stay up until 4am watching the Aussie Open, or skip class to see Rafa Nadal win his 3rd French Open. There were nights in the summer when I could enjoy the US Open and Roddick almost beating Federer, but not quite pulling it off, but what a rush of pure enjoyment! On my tour of the grounds, while sitting and staring out onto Court 1, where legends have won and lost, I figured out why tennis is one of the great sports and why Wimbledon is a tennis player’s heaven.
The saying goes, “Tennis is a gentlemen’s sport,” but you only fully comprehend that when you visit Wimbledon. Here, traditions reign supreme. You only wear white, you bow to the Royals’ box after a match on Centre court, and, well, there is always a rain delay. But taking the journey deeper and deeper into the nooks and crannies of the grounds, I learned that no one is allowed on the grass courts until June, when the grass court season officially starts, and no one, not even any of the 500 hundred members of the club, is allowed on Centre Court or Court 1. Those courts are reserved for only the top players in the world. Why? Well, it’s tradition.
The way Wimbledon works is it’s a private club. No shareholders, no stocks, no presidents or board members that sell rights to TV channels so they can make money. BBC is the only channel in Britain that airs the tournament and they play it on a basic cable channel. No one has to pay to see the tournament on TV. And what else do these wealthy, tennis-loving feigns allow? 1600 tickets on any given day during the two weeks of the tournament for those that wait in the queues. That’s right. 1600 tickets. For those that aren’t lucky enough to win the lottery tickets before Christmas, there’s still a chance to see the epic battles that ensue on the grassy greens.
“Tennis is the perfect combination of violent action taking place in an atmosphere of tranquility”- Billie Jean King.
Our tour guide began with a quick summary of Wimbledon’s beginnings; how they wanted to raise a few shillings for a new lawn mower and how it eventually grew into one of the biggest tennis tournaments in London, and then the world. We climbed to the top of Henmen Hill where everyone, in the summer, will pop open Pimm’s and Lemonade and have a picnic while watching the tennis on a jumbo screen planted outside one of the courts. We then walked through a tunnel to the BBC television area where all the players are interviewed before and after matches, and then on into the global interview room. I plopped right down and of course had my photo taken a few times! Our tour then took us to Court 1 where we enjoyed the magnitude of the tennis world. While Centre Court was still under construction (they’re building a roof to keep out the rain delays during championship matches) the whole of the tour and museum were well worth the trip, especially to someone who loves the sport so much. Walking through the museum, I could hold a racket that Jimmy Connors used to beat Johnny Mac in a Wimbledon final and compare it to a racket the players use now. It’s no longer wooden, and it’s much lighter. I saw the shoes Rafa Nadal wore last year when he beat Federer, and, on the topic of shoes, Maria Sharapova wore a pair of tennis shoes embedded with 16 carat gold during her appearance the year after her title win. And there was even a display dedicated to the fashionable Williams sisters. While browsing through, I managed to find the small room, off to the side of the cinema, where they all sat nice and clean, as if they’d never been touched: the trophies. They were an incredible site to see. I don’t know how anyone could lift them after a win on Centre Court. But there they were for all the world to see and gaze upon.
I think the look on my face when seeing the trophies was the same look I had on my face all day. It was a look of disbelief that I was actually there crossed with amazement. Wimbledon is known for it’s tradition and to be where all the greats have been and see a place filled with so much history about something I’m so passionate about was just completely amazing for me. And so, for anyone who is as stupidly obsessed with tennis as I am, take the Southfields stop on the tube, walk a mere 15 minutes down the road, past all the Wimbledon souvenir shops, and stop at the gates of one of the greatest sports sights in Europe and just soak in everything that has been since 1877.

Feeling Old? Visit the Natural History and Science Museums. Feeling rich? Visit Harrod’s. And feeling homesick? The Hop on Beauchamp.”

“Growing up is never easy. You hold on to things that were. You wonder what’s to come. But that night, I think we knew it was time to let go of what had been, and look ahead to what would be. Other days, new days, days to come. The thing is, we don’t have to hate each other for getting older. We just had to forgive ourselves for growing up” --Kevin Arnold, The Wonder Years.

Feeling small isn’t exactly a feeling I get too often. I’ve been 5’8” since 7th grade, size 10 shoe for just as long, and after eating desserts the size of my head, I feel far from small. But London has it’s ways. Take the museums scattered around the city, for example. Last week, I managed to get into the British Museum for the second time to see the Rossetta Stone, Egyptian mummies, among other things crammed into a fairly large space. But yesterday, getting off the tube at South Kensington and walking up the steps into the rainy weather, it hit me. The Natural History Museum. The place is ginormous. Sorry, British Museum, but where you have a block of stone that features clues into deciphering hieroglyphics, Natural History has dinosaur bones, millions of years old, glaring at you as you make your entrance into the Grand Hall of the Waterhouse building. It has an exact size replica of a blue whale hanging from it’s rafters. There’s the extremely long escalator that takes voyagers from the ground floor to the 4th floor via the center of the earth. And, of course, there’s a recreation of the extinct dodo bird. Just when I was starting to feel old, I read about the creation of the earth, the extinction of dinosaurs, and, well, the dodo bird. Turning 23 is nothing compared to turning 128 million years old. I don’t think the queen has even hit that milestone yet. And then there was the Science Museum. I walked through the evolution of space exploration, starting with the Greek and Romans ideas of the heavens straight to the last NASA mission. I experienced mankind’s ability to go from horse-drawn carriage to an environmentally friendly Japanese “futuristic” car. And then there was the special exhibit featuring a light show and big screen that read real time moments in chat rooms to create a visual art show (“dude, luv the new iphone” was featured multiple times).
The day was filled with feeling small and insignificant and I don‘t mean that in a horrible way. But when you walk around a city with a population 7 times your state, you can imagine how tiny and unimportant you are to a place like London. I can pay most of my thanks for feeling that way to Harrod’s, the world’s largest department store (second is Macy’s in New York). But don’t let “department store” fool you. It’s no JC Penny’s. Avoiding the crowd at the main entrance, I skipped past to one of the smaller side doors. As I walked in, I was overwhelmed with name brands. Not just semi fancy names, but huge names. Chanel, Dior, D&G, Michelle Perry, Armani, Juicy Couture, and basically any other name that is way out of my price range. But there’s a reason why all of those collections are expensive. Some of the purses, shoes, and sunglasses were absolutely amazing. I felt like I had walked into another museum. I definitely didn’t touch anything fearing a “you break it, you buy it“ rule that I had maybe missed seeing. And those are just stores inside the shopping center. Think about what kind of food court this place had. Oyster and Sushi bars, Tapas, Gelato, and, what caught me off guard, a very fancy Krispy Kreme. Yep. I’m still a little confused about that one. So, I quietly walked around Harrod’s in my worn-out tennis shoes and jeans and Old Navy tank with my Hollister hoodie. These brands ate my clothes for breakfast. After all the awe-inspired glances, I finally found my mom a couple birthday presents. While I didn’t break bank, just walking around with a Harrod’s bag made me feel a little bit more classy. And the name “Harrod’s” on the birthday presents (no, I’m not going to say what the presents actually are, sorry mom!) is worth the money. Call it a souvenir, but don’t call it cheap.
Wondering around museums and Harrod’s can sure put a girl in her place. She’s just another 22 year old soul that roams around yet another city that never sleeps (and often never sleeps in the Spring rain!). But during that day of feeling that I would be stuck in limbo for the remainder of my life, with no direction and no clue of what I’d do when I get back to the states, let alone what I’d do on my next day off, I found a place where I could find some peace, and for an afternoon call “home”. Well, it’s actually called “The Hop” and it’s run by Americans that moved overseas years ago. They play 50’s music, the floor is black and white checkered, and they have red-swirling bar stools. It’s no bigger than my room and they usually only have one or two people working. But what they always have for sale for those poor, lonely American students abroad in a new country: packets of Kool-Aid, Applejacks (among other American cereals), Dr. Pepper and Root Beer, Twinkies, Aunt Jemima’s Pancake mix, and, get this: Milk Duds. I can’t tell you how I managed to stumble upon this place. It was a mixture of hunger and tiredness that drove me to take an unadvised right turn off Chelsea high street, away from all the designer shops and expensive cafes. All I wanted was a pizza and a soda, and what I got was my childhood shipped to me via air mail and sold, overpriced at that, in some hole in the wall diner. I can honestly say I’ll be headed back. I actually have to. I put in an order for a box of Count Chocula and Frankenberries.
Just when I thought London was out to confuse me on the underground, or make me look the wrong direction while crossing the street (look right, not left!), and make me feel small compared to the ancient buildings that line Oxford street, London picks me back up and throws me into a spot so familiar it’s like I’ve known it for years. I lift my bowl of Count Chocula to you, London. Cheers, big ears.
Xo’s, jill

"It's how we drink in Belgium. It's called a Belgian Dip." --Dr. Evil from "Austin Powers"

First: I apologize for not blogging as often as I should. To make up for it, this post will be long and boring. Well, hopefully not boring, but long for sure.

Working in a Traditional English Pub in the sticks right outside London, I’ve met many walks of life. There’s the drunkard that, after a few pints of bitter, will begin to tell me my country doesn’t have culture and he’ll presume he knows more about America than I do, regardless of the fact that I grew up smack in the middle of the country (and aced every American History class I’ve ever taken) and he’s never set foot outside of the Queen‘s territory. And then there’s the occasional businessman who sips his Guinness and says, “America?! I love America!” He’ll proceed to talk up the States, even though the only America he’s ever really experienced is a trip to Florida in 1984 (I have a theory that every Brit has a timeshare in Kissimmee) and, of course, the 8 o’clock reruns of “CSI: Miami” on BBC 4. But then, when all hope is lost that I’d ever run into anyone who fully understood the America I know, they walk in. “Two fish and chips take-aways, please, love.” “Absolutely. That’s 16pound 45.” “You sound far from home. America?” “Yes, Kansas.” “Ah, we just missed Kansas on our trip.” I think to myself, “Of course you did, it’s a long way from the Mickey Mouse ears of Disney World. “ He continues, “We took a two-month RV trip across America. Started in California, went through the south, and drove back to L.A. through the northern states.” I’m sure my mouth dropped in astonishment and I know I dropped their take-away order on the floor, but to meet foreigners who a.) know where Kansas even is without calling me “Dorothy” and b.) have seen more of my country than I have is a complete surprise. “Yeah, we spent about a week driving through Texas alone, didn‘t we darling?” “Oh, yes, the catfish in Texas was wonderful!” “Have you ever been to Austin?” I asked, eager to share my fantastic stories of family vacations to the heart of the Lone Star state. “No. We were a little unlucky. They were having some sort of music festival and we wanted to avoid the crowd. We want to go back someday though.” ‘Well, be sure to go to Stubb’s BBQ. It’s the best BBQ I’ve ever had. My parents just sent me a huge bottle of it.” After my shameless promotional plug, they continued to tell of random, small town celebrations they just-so-happened to experience (I believe there was an ice cream festival and Pig’s testical eating contest all in one weekend in Iowa, and, yes, I even talked up hometown Atchison and the Amelia Earhart festival). They told their stories of the southern charm of a barman who took a day off work to show them around Shreveport, Louisiana. They stayed in a tacky motel on Route 66 in Arizona. And they ate, and enjoyed, Chi-town style deep dish pizza. I had finally met two people who had overcome the stereotype of an accent and thoroughly enjoyed a different country and culture. So, here I am with two and a half months left on my visa, just over three months left in Europe, and a story to tell of my attempt at “paying it forward” and ditching the stereotypes.
France: Berets, black and white striped shirts, red scarves around a neck, funny mustaches, and smelly people. Oh, and Belle singing about how “there must be more than this provincial life!” (or was it Amber singing that down the streets of Bruges?). A few weekends ago I took the 9132 Eurostar to Lille, France, home of a long lost cousin, Amber, and her French husband Jeremie, plus her two cats (Nacho and the scared one). I arrived early and sat in the train station for about thirty minutes, holding my bladder after seeing the ,50 euro, smelly loos (yes, I’ve picked up even more Brit terms). It was cold and the hour forty five minute train ride next to an old woman who may have been extremely rude or just confused at our language barrier, had worn me out. She kept getting things out of her bag, getting up to walk around, eating tons of food, and drinking plenty of wine. Finally getting to see Amber and meeting Jeremie that afternoon was fantastic. Not to mention, hearing an American accent and driving on the right-hand side of the road made France very homely. For that evening, my Lille tour guides took me to…A PUB. Yes. Just when I thought I had escaped, we go beer tasting at an Irish pub not too far from where Amber lives. With England vs. Ireland Rugby on the big screen, we three were able to talk nonstop and drink up and it gave Amber a chance to help me dust off my French (“parlez-vous francais? --I don’t“).
Sunday was quite an experience for a girl who grew up in the cornfields. We drove to Bergues, France (a fortified city) and then to Belgium, which, for Amber and Jeremie, is no big deal. But for me, when driving across the border means you’re either in Nebraska or Missouri, ending up in Belgium is a much sweeter deal. And by that I do mean a pun. Bruges is home to lace and chocolate. I’m not sure what the lace part means, but they had chocolate shops about every 4 feet. It’s also a UNESCO World Heritage site. I know I reiterated that about a million times that day, mostly for kicks. But it more than lives up to the honor of being one of the most beautiful cities to visit. All the streets are cobbled and the shops are medieval, selling hand made wooden toys and, well, chocolate and Belgian waffles, of course. And Bruges even satisfied our flashbacks to 6th grade with flying buttresses galore hanging off churches and cathedrals. Go ahead, call someone a “flying buttress”. It’s fun.
After our trip to Bruges and an odd, Sunday afternoon Belgian traffic jam, we headed to Tournai, a French-speaking (not to be confused with Flem, I mean, Flemmish-speaking) part of Belgium. I’m actually very frustrated with Tournai. I was tricked there. I badly wanted to pay for something, because Amber and Jeremie are way too nice and feed me way too much, so I said I’d pay for dinner. We walk into to a restaurant, sit down, order a little bit of a food with a side tray of famous Belgian fries, and the bill, for all three of us, 13euros. Thanks.
My remaining hours in Lille the following Monday was enjoyed at a leisurely walk through the Grand Place (don’t say “Grand Place” but “Gr-ah-nd Pl-ah-s”). Lille, Bruges and a visit with Amber was much needed after three-months of Europe and the only thing to show for it a two-day trip to Spain and touristy bits of London. I got my passport stamped once more, picked up some dirty French words (Thanks Jeremie!) and, more importantly, didn’t see one beret or sniff one smelly person. Of course, my experience of France was mostly Belgium, I’m very glad I didn’t see a Marcel Marceau look-a-like, miming his way all French-like throughout Lille. But what I saw of the French countryside and cities, as I quoted early on in my weekend, “it looks a lot like France.” Saying that out loud, I realized I sounded like an idiot and was later on made fun of (or to the Brits, “getting the mickey taken out of me“) as Amber quoted “Jill, doesn‘t Belgium look a lot like Belgium?”. But when you have fascinations about countries and what they should look like, you hope you’re not disappointed. You don’t want to visit France and think, “god, this looks like England” or end up in Belgium and think, “are we still in France?” While I’m formally against stereotyping after the great conversation I had with the traveling British couple, there are some things you just want to be. You want to see the huge cathedrals in France, you want the best waffles you’ve ever had in Belgium, and you want to drink cheap booze in Bruges. My bottle of Kriek awaits.

xo's, jill

Casa Amigos: The Road to New Taste Buds, and the “Magic Roundabout”: The Road to More Roads

"There’s no better time to try new things then when you’re surrounded by nothing but difference. "

About a month and a half ago I began driving on the opposite side of the street, steering wheel on the opposite side of the car, and, of course, seatbelt coming from the right, not the left, no matter how many times I grab for air. I first began venturing toward the post office; a short 5 minute drive down the narrow, crowded by hedges lanes that connect Commonwood to civilization. And then I slowly started to drive further and further away from the pub: Sainsbury’s for grocery shopping, Oscar’s for pizza, Watford for bowling. But today, I took the biggest leap any foreigner to British driving could ever imagine. I attempted the “Magic Roundabout” (pictured above). Roundabouts themselves are confusing enough. Where do I look? Which lane to I need to get into? Why is that guy honking at me and flipping me off? But the easy thing about a roundabout is that you stay toward the left. There’s no oncoming traffic, it’s strictly one way. That was what I though of all roundabouts…until I met one of two Magic Roundabouts in the entire world. Hemel’s Magic Roundabout is the connection to Hemel High Street, a.k.a. the movie theater, the mall, restaurants, and basically anything you’d enjoy on a day away from work. So, I attempted it. Being scared out of my mind while grabbing the keys to the Fiesta, I was pretty sure I’d chicken out and just stay in my room downloading episodes of “Gossip Girl” and “How I Met Your Mother”, but no, a day off means a day away from everything. And I really wanted a day off. After driving about 10 minutes, I had talked myself into it, I’m going shopping in Hemel and I’m going to make it through the Magic Roundabout, no problem. As I approached the unusual, circular mass of cars round and round and round (about), I realized the cars were going in both directions…around a roundabout. I turned down the radio, took a deep breath, and scooted closer and closer to the steering wheel. I stopped at the “Give Way” sign, let a few cars go by, and put the pedal to the metal…so to speak. I had just entered the Magic Roundabout. It’s tough to explain when roundabouts are so abnormal to the States, but basically, it’s a two-way roundabout with no rules. But I played it safe and creeped around the turns, playing packman on the middle lines, just in case I needed to take a sudden exit due to hyper-anxiety. But within 45 seconds, it was all over and I’d come to my exit and found the parking garage, and began my day off of shopping. I rewarded myself by spending half a paycheck on new clothes.
Yes, today I tried the Magic Roundabout and survived. And I also tried something else and lived to tell. I, Jill Garrett, ate a fajita from Casa Amigos filled with…peppers and tomatoes. That’s right. The pickiest eater in the world, the girl who had sworn off tomatoes and veggies (except carrots) ate something so out of character. And what’s crazier is that I enjoyed it. I actually just finished eating the remainder of the jalapenos that came in the small plastic cup. Who knew I was so daring? To put my taste buds at risk like that. But now for something my mouth will truly enjoy, a nice cold pint…of Ben and Jerry’s. (I had already had a pint of San Miquel’s with my Mexican food.)

Something that's not new to me, but new to Londoners, SNOW STORMS. It's unbelievably funny to listen to the Brits talk about the snow we had last week. It's all melted away now, but here are some photos.


And to be funny: I took this photo right outside the Hemel shopping center. If only it were missing that first "I". (I really can't get away from that town!)


More updates soon! xo's, jill

Calla Mallor, Majorca: 3 Days in Spain

"Spain is the last great country."
-Ernest Hemingway

Last Monday, I woke up at 6 am, ate a poptart, put on my scarf and fleece sweater, and grabbed my tightly packed bookbag: I was on my way to get my passport stamped once again. There were ten of us, and we all met in the pub. Half asleep, we managed to drive our way to Stanstead Airport, about an hour away from Cart and Horses. Our flight left at 11am and I had know idea what to expect of Majorca, Spain. It isn't mainland Spain, so I knew I wouldn't see Pamplona and the Running of the Bulls, or Barcelona and anything related to Picasso, or even Seville and whatever Seville is famous for. We had a two hour flight on Europe's cheapest airline: Ryanair. It's also the bumpiest and serves it's vodka in little baggies. But the views from the window seat made up for the dropping feeling in my stomach every time we hit turbulence (or was that the vodka?). We could see the circular roads in France, the Pyrenese Mountains that ride the border of France and Spain and their small villages nestled in each nook and cranny of the mountains, and we could see the beaches of Barcelona as we approached the sea (we didn't, however, get close enough to see if they were nude...sorry fellas). It really was one of the most beautiful plane rides I've ever taken.
Majorca is located in the Mediterranean Sea, halfway between Spain's coast and Italy's Sardinia island. It's best known for the popular city of Palma, which we didn't explore until our last day. As we landed in the Palma airport, though, I could already feel the heat of the sun, which I hadn't seen in awhile (yes, it really is rainy and cloudy in England most of the time) and in celebration, I immediately rolled up my jeans, put on a pair of flip flops, and broke out my aviator sunglasses. Oh, Holiday!
We drove (on the right side! Which was a nice homey feeling) for about an hour through the greens of Majorca, with views extending to the mountains and the sea. When we finally arrived to our all-inclusive resort in Cala Mallor, everyone was antsy to get our Staff Holiday started. I threw my bags in my room and immediately followed my fellow travelers to the bar, where I sipped the house cocktail outside until the sun set, listening to the crashing of waves nearly 20 yards away. There was no entertainment at the hotel that night, no big meals planned, it was simply a refreshing evening with good drinks and good company. I guess the only thing that ruined that was getting kicked out of the restaurant because my boss and one of the chefs, Ben, decided a food fight with ice cream would be fun...let's just say they had one to many tequilas...The end of the night came at around 3am at a casino down the street from our hotel. It was me and James, and we had become so jacked up on sugary, mixed drinks that we couldn't fall asleep. So we grabbed some of our Euros and began pushing buttons on the slots. Apparently they were all the wrong buttons, so we took the few coins we had left and enjoyed a game of pool, a couple arcade games that involved shooting zombies, and then had a go at the roulette table.
Slightly hungover and a few Euros short, we traveled early the next morning to Cuevas del Porto Cristo, a favorite vacation spot of Mozart, which explains the random opera we had to sit through in the middle of our caves tour. The caves were absolutely amazing, regardless of the 12 minute opera break. With the group photo taken at the exit of the caves, and the sound of Mozart echoing further and further away, we hopped in our Ford Focus' and began "Ian's drive to nowhere." The boss man, Ian, who thought he knew where he was going, ended up driving us through the narrowest of streets, down the steepest hills, and nowhere near beaches; the intended destination. But somehow, we did find ourselves at a lookout where we could see the meeting of beach, sea and sky. (Insert photo of me here) :)
As the day ended, we traveled back to our hotel where the bar awaited. I'd like to say that for that one evening, I managed to control myself, but when in Spain...
Tonight, though, something different: Gin and Tonics...and Champagne...and San Miquels...I know what you're thinking, "Jill, slow down" but in my defense, I wasn't the one with the worst hangover the next day. Those English sure like to drink...to top of our night, the hotel hosted a Bingo night for all the blue-hair Germans that joined us on our holiday. Just a note to anyone traveling to Majorca in Spain: There will be a lot of old people that like to sleep. (End tally of how many times management climbed the stairs to our room to tell us to "silencio, por favor": 4.5 The half is because we went down to the lobby and they didn't have to actually climb the stairs).
Anyway, the last day of our trip, we drove into Palma, home of a gigantic Cathedral (which is closed in the winter time, to our disappointment) and the 12th Century Castell De Bellver. The climb to the top of the castle was, well, harsh, considering everyone's alcoholic intake the night before, but to sit at the top and gaze upon the hustle and bustle of Palma with the contrasting easiness of the sea was refreshing.
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To finally get away from the pub (and the rainy, cloudy days!) and see all my coworkers away from the job, was the greatest thing about this trip. I was able to relax without worrying about screwing up an order (which I don't do often) or breaking a wine glass (which actually does happen often) and just drink on the beaches of Calla Mallor, Majorca. My first trip outside of England, but definitely not my last. An update on my month of June I'll have to explore before coming home: I've already booked a spot on a tour with Topdeck Tours (tours for 18-35 year olds) to get me from London, through Paris, the French Rivearia, all of Italy, sailing the coast of Greece and Croatia, through Austria, Prague, Amsterdam, then back to London in time for Wimbledon at the end of June! But they're will be loads more between now and then! Talk to everyone soon! XO's, jill