Well, folks, it has been a while. But for those of you who read my last entry
you know that I am renewing my commitment to writing. And, what great timing for y’all, because I
am actually preparing to fly off for a girls’ holiday to sunny Crete tomorrow! Naturally, I am very excited – have downloaded
all manner of cheesy vacation music (although, not, oddly, “Bootylicious” by
Destiny’s Child as it is not on iTunes.
What is up with that? You can
download the Fat Boys “Wipeout” from 1984 but not a number one hit by one of
the greatest all time girl bands? And, yes, I did also download FB’s
Wipeout. I admitted it was cheesy
vacation music. I am not proud)…but I
digress.
I also booked a mani/pedi, purchased new glittery sandals,
sundresses and books for the trip. Now,
I am a little wary of this trip as it is my first package holiday. All my British friends will be familiar with
this concept and know what this means, but for the Americans, let me
explain. Think of it like a cruise
ship that doesn’t go anywhere. You have
an entertainment director person (a la Julie McCoy) whose sole job is to get
you to spend more money on “excursions.”
You fly on a chartered plane to a resort with some or all meals
included. Your only purpose is to lie in
the sun, by the pool, while buying expensive cocktails. So far, not much of an adventure, but certainly,
what I need after a ridiculously stressful few months. I only really have one concern on this trip –
there are three of us going and we booked a “triple” for the week. Meaning all in one room, quite possibly (but
hopefully not) in one bed and a foldout.
Now I am a kicker. And, a
fidgeter. And, a frequent
roller-over. As a matter of fact, I am
probably more active in my sleep than I am all day.
Hmmm. Note to self,
must get on that 5K training plan after I get back.
But, the bed situation isn’t actually my concern – probably because
I am not the one in danger of being assaulted in mid REM. No, I have a vague recollection of an “open-plan”
style bathroom situation picture on the hotel’s website. I am refusing to let that image materialize
fully in my head. Because three friends
do not need to share that much. So, let’s
just hope that was the honeymoon suite where you don’t mind showering or
experiencing any hangover effects smack dab in the middle of your bedroom. Although, come to think of it, even then, not
so much.
So, as I prepare for this trip, I am reminded of my last
girls’ holiday, which was over a year ago to Morocco. Now before I go into too
much detail, let me preface this with the information that this was a
well-planned trip, well-thought out trip.
(not by me, natch.) A few friends
decided that we wanted to go to Morocco so we picked a time in March, when the
prices were lower and we would be definitely interested in seeing sunshine, a
little less post-Christmas broke, and in need of a break after three long
months of sun and fun depravation. (Also
known as Winter in London.)
Now, what I forgot to take into account is that March is
also the last month of my company’s fiscal year. So, the weeks leading up to that point were
particularly horrendous, augmented by the fact that I was trying to close a
deal in Australia. From a conference
room in London. At 4 am. When Australia is open for business and
negotiation.
Fast forward to the usual Kristin-prep. Pack all the wrong things, forget stuff you
do need and have absolutely no idea what you are in for. Turns out, it isn’t so appropriate to wear short
strapless sundresses in Morocco in March.
If the frigid desert temps don’t get ya, the ogling and cat-calling men in
the Marrakesh bazaar will. Now the first time, I had someone tell me they “love
me” or said “oh my god" (insert sick pervy intonation here) I made the colossal mistake of shouting
back. Yeah, don’t do that.
It was a very Samantha-Sex in the City move that backfired
into an Abu Ghraib prison riot.
(Ok, maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration.) But, I
digress.
In any event, my poor dress code sense was never more wrong
than when we completed our 12 hour drive up the mountains, down the mountains,
through the mountains and finally arrived in the desert. (For those that know me, I am a compulsive motion-sensitive
projectile vomiter. This 12 hours may
have been the death of me had our lovely driver found me some fancy Arabic medicine
that knocked me out.)
Again, bad planning on the packing. This drive was no surprise. Well, to everyone else anyway.
So, enter my Arabian nights fantasy – riding a camel at
sunset, sleeping in a beduin tent under a sky filled with thousands of stars…
It was close.
There was a camel. And,
me in my cowboy boots (what? You have a better option for foot attire on a
dromedary?) riding along on Jimi Hendrix (yes, that was my camel’s name. I did not make that up.) until we get to the point where they
tell us we need to hike up the final
hill as it is too step for the camels.
Well, steep and shifting sands aren’t so great in cowboy boots either. So, I decided to quit and wait it out. Enter sandstorm. So, now I am panicked, thinking I will be
lost in the desert, left to freeze to death in my boot and sundress, so I take
my Balinese beach sarong, wrap it around my face to block the sand from my eyes,
take off my boots and hoist myself up the last 5 miles. Ok, maybe not 5. But, it wasn’t pretty.
So, we head back down to our campsite, covered in sand and
grit. (Let me tell ya, you have no idea
how many creases are on the human body until you get stuck in a sandstorm in
the Sahara.) Now, you would think we would
be keen for a hot shower at this point.
But, as the sun has gone down and the frigid desert air has now rendered
my Balinese sarong wrap-come-face protector-come scarf absolutely useless, I am
not sure I want to add getting wet to this recipe for death. (Not to mention that the last two “showers” I
had used in the country clearly felt that gravity was the only requirement for
water pressure. Now that may be great if
you are 2 feet tall, but even as short as I am, I had to make do with an ad-hoc
cupping and splashing type of cleansing ritual. Ain’t no way that is going to help with the
gritty sand-filled creases.)
Turns out that was definitely the right decision. Because another thing I forgot: tents have no heat.
Luckily, they gave us about 500 yak or goat blankets, so I
just hunkered down and collapsed. And, I
slept very well that night.
So, following our Marrakesh bazaar experience and desert
excursion, my dear friends had booked us into one of the most amazing hotels on
the beach I have ever had the pleasure of visiting. I would go back to Essaouira just for this
hotel – gorgeous gardens everywhere, amazing home grown food and herbs, a giant
fireplace for cozy glasses of wine at night and an adults-only pool for daytime
sunbathing. And, a real shower, with
water pressure and everything! It was
heaven. (Of course, come to think of it,
as the night before I had been sleeping with goat blankets in a tent, my
standards may have been a little relaxed.)
I enjoyed this hotel so much that I didn’t even go to the
beach with everyone else. Just hung out
by the pool, reading in the sunshine with a cold glass of wine. Bliss.
And, while on my own, I decided
to book us all in for a hammam at the hotel’s spa.
Something else I should have researched in advance. Turns out “hammam” is code for naked time
with strangers.
I don’t do naked time.
And I certainly don’t do it with 5 girlfriends, most of whom I have
known less than a year. So, when I tried
to politely tell the lady (in broken French) that I was not going to be happy
wearing the black plastic shower cap panties only, I only served to embarrass the others who just wanted to go along with it
all. So, I put them on. (BTW, what is up with these spa disposable
garments – really, a little dignity please.)
So, I hesitantly tip toe into the hammam, trying as best as I can to
cover my assets and making sure to only focus on above the waist eye contact
with all my friends.
Now, the hammam is a steam room and the steam can lend some well-needed
coverage. And, the heat leaves you
feeling very relaxed…so fast forward 30 minutes. I am cloaked in steam, chilled out, we’re all
more comfortable with the environment, embracing our feminine form and feeling
liberated and dignified. So, I decide
to top up the steam by adding cold water, not an usual thing. However, as I proudly stroll back to my stone
bench, thinking, “look at me embracing the openness, naked time, naked time, I
can do this!”, I make the colossal mistake of trying to pop backwards onto the
stone bench, hit a particularly hot bit of stone on my asset, yelp in pain and
lunge forward. Normally I would just
fall on the ground, but I am covered in sweat.
The room is cloaked in steam. So,
I bounce and skid on my arse across the entire hammam, arms and legs akimbo til
I hit the other side.
Exit dignity.
If there is anything I have a more adamant rule about than
naked time, it is moving quickly when naked.
Naked people should not run, jump, or, God forbid, bounce and skid.
I am feeling pretty mortified. I am not sure it can get worse. Oh, but it does.
I will spare you the lurid details, but let’s just say that
the rest of the hammam experience consisted of being scrubbed from head to toe
with some black soap (think awkward 3 year old bath-time feeling) followed by
what I can only describe as a “boyfriend” massage. If you have to ask…..let’s just say, cupping
motions should not be adopted as a massage technique and certain areas should
be off limits to anyone but your doctor.
All in all, I think I was more stressed leaving the hammam
than I was at 4 am in that conference room in London.
But, while I do love to tell a good story, I have to say
that Morocco ranks up there with my top all-time trips ever. I got to know some very special ladies
better, saw an amazing and beautiful country and was humbled by the kindness of
the people we met and cultural and geographic diversity in such a small place. I took away alot from that trip.
Including just a a little of my own humility, too.
Bring on Crete and the open plan bathroom! :)
