I couldn't possibly choose just one photo of Greece. Though I admit the imbalance will drive me a bit mad, it's getting its very own triptych. My condolences to Mexico and California, but I was in Greece for 11 days. So there.
Besides, my dream of going to Greece has been risin' in the easy bake oven since first grade when my teacher, Miss Dolce, high-tailed it out of the south to conquer Crete. From there she was sweet enough to pen-pal me letters (I was that annoying teacher's pet 'til adolescent angst kicked in) and photos and all sorts of nifty Greek souveniers. I kept them until last year when cheapskate landlord failed to replace 100 year old roof, basement flooded, and said souveniers grew fungae. And don't get me started on what the shitty insulation did to my gas bill (rape).
I'm only slightly embarrassed to say when it was that my dreams of Greece were rekindled... See final scene of Bourne Identity. Greece's dreamy shoreline. Franka Potente renting Vespas. Me, pretending to be her. Wouldn't you know it, we coincidentally ended up on THAT.VERY.DREAMY.SHORELINE!
A bazillion-to-a-bazillion-squared-thanks to the undying generosity of one Gracie the Amazing. She made it possible for the three of us broke-ass lasses to hop, skip and jump our way to Greece glorious Greece. First came Athens (love). Then came Mykonos (marriage). Then came Santorini (in a baby carriage). That was dumb, but it was twue wuv. The dweam within a dweam.
It's not that our trip was the epitome of smooth sailing. There was inevitable turbulence... people not always the friendliest (though there were some real gems), pricey as hayle (damn the euro!), and we couldn't find the bloody entrance to the Acropolis (despite its looming presence). As for this post's Offensive Generalization, I'll note that Greeks have an interesting fashion sense. The kind that doesn't exist. The tackier and tighter, the better. But all the turbulence, just like tacky wears, made the experience all the more interesting.
The visual stimulation of Greece made my heart go all a flutter. Ouzo never tasted so good until I was under Greece's skies, the same color as its cobalt waters. And who can complain when there's tzadziki at every turn, so much I did the impossible and overdosed. The sun was bright each and every day, and the Aegean was crisp and clear for the immersing. Santorini (Oia, to be exact) was last but the opposite of least. It is, I believe, the epitome of terrestrial beauty.
I could go on and on. So… I won't. Now that the triptych is complete, it's time to start working toward the next one. I already tempted the fates by entering a piss-poor state of productivity during my 2-week post-vacation hangover (a.k.a. immersion in dreams of throwing it all away to be Franka), and I'm pretty sure getting canned would put a big wrench between me and the next exotic getaway.