WWOOFing Eve

A quick post before we leave tomorrow…

Currently we are at the Minneapolis Airport Ramada Inn.  I just thought it fitting to mention that we are in our motel room getting into the Greek spirit by

(a) researching the Athens terminal map

(b) going over Molly’s Greek vocab list

(c) watching 300 on TV. (See a trailer here…or an EVEN BETTER trailer here.)

…300 being a movie that, I’m sure, captures what Greece is all about, if Greece is really all about pornographic violence set to pounding guitar riffs, slow-motion, really cool lighting and special effects, and men in red capes and black briefs.  And let me point out that these are REALLY RIPPED men in red capes and black briefs. The thing is that Molly just told me that this movie did REALLY well over in Greece, so if they’re OK with it being sort of over-the-top, then I don’t have to feel so guilty-pleasure and “in spite of myself” about REALLY enjoying it.

Like, really.

In conjunction with Molly’s “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” binge, we pretty much have our “how Greek people are” perceptions set.  

So this really wasn’t about traveling at all, but I suppose we can file it under “Greek culture.”  Right?  Right!

 

Pre Trip Stuff

Eleanor Roosevelt said once, “Do one thing everyday that scares you.”  I’m good for today then, because I too am at last packed.  Trying to fit three months of your life into a tiny Northface knockoff is the kind of scary that keeps you up at night and makes you stupid.  It is the kind of scary that makes two quite intelligent, well-traveled young ladies call each other up with panic in their gentle voices and worry out loud for hours that they will both collapse in the middle of nowhere under the weight of their packs and their faces will eaten off by European cats and they will be never heard from again and the travel blower dryer purchased especially for this trip will go unused and wasted. 

 

When I found the two matching backpacks Danielle and I will be hauling around Europe, the little lady in the shop watched me try one on and giggled at me.  It was the biggest one they sold and seemed to be two-thirds my height.  “Too big!” she said.  Oh if that little lady could see my backpack now.  When I tried it on in the store, it was stuffed neatly with newspaper, to give it a nice shape.  Now my backpack looks lumpy and weird, and oh yah, somehow even bigger than it was when I first tried it on.  No, heels do not pack well.  Yes, blow dryers are heavy.  But these little gems keep me feeling like a human instead of a backpacker.

 

It is not too heavy though.  I tested it out the other day with a spin around our upstairs, which is basically like an obstacle course made out of variety of hazards on blue carpet.  Both the backpack and I did very well and I happy to report I am doing a lot less worrying about the packing and a lot more getting excited about the trip, which is the way it is supposed to be.

 

I don’t think Eleanor Roosevelt ever went wwoofing, but I think that nice lady would understand why we are going on this strange adventure.  It’s a little scary but its good for us, and it is my last chance at adventure before I must settle down into a normal life of doing adult things, like owning furniture and having an address where I can receive bills and magazine subscriptions. 

 

For this trip I have engaged in intense preparation.  I watched My Big Fat Greek Wedding twice and planted six flowerpots on my parents’ deck.  It should also be said that I arranged a Horse Tutorial with Shanna, our friend who knows horses, but we decided to go play with Cindy’s babies instead. 

 

So we fly tomorrow from my dear Minneapolis airport and will be in Athens by 10:30 am on June 3^rd.  I’m most excited about 1) actually getting to spend time with Danielle, as we are hetero life mates but have lived in separate cities for 6 years, 2) getting my picture taken in front of the Acropolis, 3) eating like a farmer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Packed!

The backpack is packed, and (despite its seemingly illogical weight) I even have the teeniest bit of wiggle room, which I consider pretty effing incredible.  Molly pointed out the other day that we would have “legs like Vin Diesel” by the end of the trip from carrying these things.  Which I suppose is OK…muscular is good.  But Mr. Diesel also falls into the “actors perpetually covered in a fine layer of grit” category, which isn’t acceptable for me.  I like to shower.

Anyway.  Molly and I have been having panicked phone conversations — sometimes several per day — that are all sort of variations on a theme:

“Holy shit!  Are you packing <insert frivolous item here*>?”

“Oh, thank God you asked!  I dunno!  Should I?”

This usually goes on for 20 minutes, at which point someone decides that, you know, we just might get into a bind wherein a few bottles of nail polish, 5000% of one’s daily RDA of Iron, 40 granola bars, and that old copy of “My Antonia” would come in handy. 

To be perfectly honest, though, I’m actually sort of masochistic minimalist when it comes to packing…some superstitious part of me thinks that, if I forget to bring along Band-Aids or a few extra pairs of socks or whathaveyou, it was sort of the will of the gods, and we all know that “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” 

“Meh.  I forgot sunblock, but my skin will get a nice leathery quality soon enough, and then I’ll be fine.”

Der.

Ah, well.  Such are the perils of having one backpack and a carryon.  And bite me, American Airlines, for your paying-for-checked-baggage policy.  Unnnnnnnnngh.  This only encourages those uber-entitled city folk on the plane who try to stuff everything, children included, into the overhead bins. 

“When I was your age, overhead bins were big enough for a pop can and nothing else, and we LOVED it!  We were THANKFUL, by God!  This is my God-given American right!  I can stuff whatever fits up here!”

Sure you can, tightwad.

Anyhow.  I think all will go well…considering that I’m ready and packed 2 days in advance, which is some kind of a record for me, things are looking up.

I’m curious about the comparability to Iowa farming.  Having been at home for about a week, I’m occasionally having this embarrassing nostalgic, “misty” reaction to pigs and cornfields. Much as I make fun of it, Iowa is a wonderful place.  I mean, I’m sure Greece and Italy and Spain will be topographically far more interesting than Iowa…but will I hear pig feeder-lids banging when I’m going to sleep?  Can you hear cherry trees growing at night (because my dad swears…and I might agree with him…that you can hear corn growing.  Really!)? Do they use tractors in Europe as much as they do here?  And if so, do they have generations-long family alliances with John Deere or Case IH?

I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.  Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!  Excited!!!!!!!

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* “Frivolous items” that have come under discussion include, but are not limited to: blow dryers, dresses and otherwise “cute” clothes (including — no joke — heels), a gazillion tampons (sorry…but true), non-perishable food, vitamins forced upon us by parental figures, one’s entire literary fiction collection, etc.