Cruising to Fifty, part four: Corfu cats, Christ and classic rock

This is the fourth part of a series of blogs about the cruise the Wife and I went on last October. You can read the others here:
part one | part two | part three

A quick set up:

I turned 50 on October 6, 2012. My wife surprised me about three weeks before, during a particular low spot in my life with a piece of paper. “Happy birthday,” she said. I opened the paper and quickly scanned it.

“We’re going on a cruise?” I said, and my mind kind of shut down with happiness after that. In fact, it wasn’t until several minutes later, as I was refolding the paper, that I saw the word “Greece” and just about shit. This is the story of what happened on that trip, taken almost exclusively from the diary I kept along the way.

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Someone is waiting just for you
spinning wheel is spinning true
Drop all your troubles, by the river side
Catch a painted pony
On the spinning wheel ride

Spinning Wheel – Blood, Sweat & Tears

October 8

Today, we left Italy and landed in Greece. Corfu, to be exact. Beautiful country, beautiful scenery, amazing mountains, cliffs, water.

We left the ship and clambered on the bus for a trip to two different places in Corfu.

On the bus

I had high expectations for our tour guide after Frederica yesterday. Today’s tour guide was an older woman, I’m going to guess 55-60, who seemed to amuse herself long before anyone else. As we drove to our first destination, she took frequent pauses to laugh at her own jokes or anecdotes.

Yeah. She wasn’t funny.

Okay, well, that’s sort of a lie. I’d say she wasn’t consciously funny. She did, however, have this habit of getting pissed if it looked like rain, which it did off and on all through the tour.  So, she’d exclaim “JESUS CHRIST” out of nowhere.  As an example, she might be pointing out a mountain, so the accompanying dialogue would be something like, “And over there is a beautiful mountain and JESUS CHRIST it better not rain!”

I can’t do it justice, but trust me, everyone on the bus chuckled every time she did it. She did it a lot over the four hours we spent with her.

The first place we visited was at the top of a mountain–with one hell of a ride up and down it. There were long, curving sections with honest-to-God hairpin turns…think about that for one second. Take one of those big comfortable buses designed for travel. Now, put it on the side of a mountain. Now, give it a super tight hairpin turn. Repeat. A lot. Now, add in a “JESUS CHRIST!” every time we encounter one.

The entrance to the Achilleon

We eventually made it up this crazy mountain to a half-castle, half-mansion, known as the Achilleon built  by the estranged Empress of Bavaria Elisabeth, better known as Sisi (or Sissi, depending on which spelling you prefer). Apparently she travelled throughout Europe avoiding her husband, eventually finding a home in Corfu.

Catching ourselves in a mirror

For anyone local to me that reads this blog, imagine Robert McLaughlin’s Parkwood Estate, but built up on a mountain.

Rubbing for luck…why does every tourist attraction have one of these?

Karen checks out an ass…

…and she likes it!

We spent a solid hour or so there, and everywhere you turned, there was another beautiful section to discover. Really, the place was absolutely stunning. Then to imagine everything being hauled up this mountain and built with the technology of 1890…it boggles the mind.

After the Achilleon, we got back in the bus for our next destination. This involved a harrowing ride back down the mountain and through all those damn hairpin turns again. There were times when I looked out the window of the bus and could not even see the edge of the road, just a long drop to the ocean below. Got the blood racing, let me tell you. JESUS CHRIST!

Once we were down on more level land, we headed to the northern area of Corfu. The old tour guide droned on. I mean, you can only handle so much of:

“As we pass troo dis cahn-tree, don’ t’ink. Don’ t’ink, juss breede in all in, fill your lungs wit all de byoo-tee aroun’ you. Juss let it fill you and calm you and make you ‘appy.”

I have to admit, she put me to sleep for a bit.

We headed to a small monastery, also built on a mountain, but nowhere near the crazy trip we just experienced.

Outside the monastery

I’ve decided, having forgotten the real name of the monastery, to rename it the Greek Church of the Holy Felines. Seriously, there was more cats than I’d ever seen collected in a single place, ever. Cats in the hallways. Cats in the gardens. Cats on ledges. Cats in flowerpots. Cats in boxes. Cats just hanging around. Chillin’ cats.

To be honest, I lost interest in the monastery and became completely fascinated with the cats…as you’ll be able to see from the pictures.

Back on the bus, back down the mountain and tour guide did point out one thing that absolutely fascinated me. We passed a small inlet that had a large outcropping of rock rising from the waves. Apparently this was where Ulysses landed after his experience with both the Trojan War (as chronicled in Homer’s The Iliad) and his adventure-filled return home (as chronicled in The Odyssey). That outcropping of rock? That was supposedly the petrified remains of his ship. It totally captured my imagination and drove home how much history lived in these mountains and valleys.

We had a very quick stop in “old town” then back to the bus one last time and back on the ship.

Loved that, whoever this guy was, now he was a bird perch.

In the end, we got incredibly lucky, passing through at least two major rainstorms, but seeing only sun whenever we got out of the bus.Whether it was Jesus Christ or the Greek Gods smiling down on us, I’ll never know.

Our ship, the Splendour of the Seas

In front of our ship

We grabbed a late lunch and then sat out on the balcony and watched as the ship left the Corfu harbour.

The light blue waves are the water stirred up from the ship turnig 180 degrees before leaving port

Heading out of port

Then, once at sea again, had a nap. Hey, I’m old. I’m allowed.

Woke up and got all dolled up for the first (and, though we didn’t know it yet, last) formal night. We sat with a nice couple from England and an older couple from Ottawa along with their son, which was a cool surprise. Even cooler, the mother knew people from Killaloe, the town not far from Barry’s Bay where I went to high school.

The Ottawa couple were taking their son on a cruise as a celebration for him gaining his MBA from Rotman. Turns out he works for PriceWaterhouseCooper, very close to one of the offices I work out of in Toronto. Even four thousand miles away…

After dinner, we scooted over to the Top Hat bar for a game. Now, I’m the first one to admit I’m not much of a game guy. But when you advertise Classic Rock Trivia, dude, I’m there.

The game consisted of them playing a three-to-four second snippet of a classic rock song, and then we had to provide the title of the song. Oh come on, this is like taking candy from a baby, I thought.

Turns out three-to-four seconds of a song is a stunningly short amount of time. Damn, this wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. And what made it even worse? There was this guy and his wife a couple of seats over that obviously knew the damn songs too. The host would play a snippet, both of them would bop along with it, then immediately go to the sheet and start scribbling. Messed with my mind, I tell you.

Anyway, I got a little jammed on a Led Zeppelin song. I knew it was Led Zep, but I got stuck on remembering only two parts, the “gonna give you my love” part and the “waaaaaaaaay down inside” part. I. Could. Not. Remember. The. Title. JESUS CHRIST!

Got a much-needed assist from Karen with another song. I knew it was Blood, Sweat & Tears, and I wrote down What Goes Up. Karen looked at that and said, quietly, bless her soul, “Isn’t that one Spinning Wheel?” When she’s right, she’s right.

He gave us a chance to replay a couple of the riffs, and I had him hit that Led Zep song one more time, and Whole Lotta Love just popped in, just like that.

When it was done, we had to pass our sheets to a neighbouring table to mark. I got a 16 out of 16, with Karen’s assist. Turns out the table that marked ours had a teacher or two, so I had to laugh at the “16/16! Well done!” note at the bottom.

And that other couple, the one I was sweating over? 14/16. Yeah, baby! The Canadians kicked ass! Apparently the host had never seen anyone get a perfect score before. So, we scored two Royal Caribbean umbrellas. As the Boy would say, “Dope!”

Victorious, we came back to our room and ended up chatting with our room guy. He’s the one that decorated the room for my birthday and made sure everything was perfect. Great guy, from Romania, where Dracula’s castle is.

One of the towel animals our room guy left for us

Karen decided to pull down the birthday decorations down. As she’s doing it, she says, “Isn’t it cool how they got the little Royal Caribbean anchors on these streamers?”

Yes, it was cool, but when I’d said that the night before when I noticed it, she’d looked at me like I had two heads. Typical woman. Ah well, it was good for a laugh.

And then, I finished up another perfect evening writing  the notes for the day out on the balcony with the distant lights of Greece in the distance, along with the running lights of a couple of other ships at sea with us, and enjoying the warm breeze of the Ionian Sea.

Really, does it get any better than this?

See part five here.

The Boy…and the toilet: The end

So if you’ve read the last two posts, then I don’t need to apologize anymore.  If you haven’t, start here, then go here, then come back.  Either way, screw the apologies and damn the torpedoes.

We last left off with the fact that my exciting new tool of the toilet trade had some unforeseen maintenance issues.

You can rest assured that, going forward, everytime I used that baby, I whacked it against the toilet bowl to ensure the elimination of hidden passengers.  In fact, you wouldn’t be out of line to state I “whacked the shit out of it.”

And therein lies the final problem in this sad trilogy of scatological terror…the fact that, even though I had a phenomenal tool to clear the clogs…I still needed to clear the damn clogs!

And I want to impress upon you, this wasn’t a monthly occurrence.  Not weekly.  This was damn near a daily chore for me.  And for those of you not in my position, let me just assure you now that staring at a bowl full of nasty and pumping while trying not to get wet?  Yeah, that shit gets old real quick, even with a labour-saving weapon like the Hammer.

So, there finally came a day when the Wife and I decided we were done.  Damn tiny little S-shaped drains that could not take my son’s filth away!  I would scour the ends of the Earth–Indiana Jones style if that’s what it took–to find something that would cut back the daily pumping of crap out of my life.

We talked to a friend of ours that had experience in home renovations, and he recommended a place in Whitby, so we headed off on our quest.

We entered a showroom that glittered and shone with all that is porcelain and plastic and contains water.  Sinks and showers and tubs.  Tubs with jets.  Tubs with doors.  Hot tubs.

But I remained faithful to the quest.  Mine were eyes that never strayed from the goal of flushing glory.  I glided straight by shower stalls that promised uncompromised cleaning of the kind I could only dream about.  I slid past sinks that would tease dirt from my fingers with delightful, chromed ecstasy.  I ignored their shameless whispers and headed straight for the thrones in this Kingdom of Plumbing.

And the selection!  The mind boggles.

Still, it didn’t take long to fall in love with a one-piece number with a lid that closed slowly, making the barest whisper of a tunk when it finally settled.  When one of the salespersons approached, he said the Toto was one of the better toilets in the store.  After cracking a couple of jokes about a toilet named after Dorothy’s dog in the Wizard of Oz, I finally got to the question that had been plaguing me for months.

“Okay, it’s nice,” I said.  “And I like the slow closing lid and the low volume flush, but I need something that  basically…”  And this is where words failed me.  In desperation, I held my arms out in a circle in front of me.  “I need something with a drain this big,” I said, nodding my head to the approximate two-foot opening I was demonstrating.

“Ah, well then, this is good for that too,” he said.  The next words he spoke were like the sweetest music to my ears.  I’ll never forget those exquisite words…”This sucker’ll flush a cat!”

I’m sure he said other things after that, but with that line, I’d stopped listening and was sold.  Wrap it up, I’m ready to go.

And the time came to pass when the Toto was installed in our bathroom.  When the Boy came home from school that day, we pointed out his new arch nemesis.  He scoffed.  Quite abrasively and with great abandon, I might add.  And later that evening, I happened to witness him as he came out of his bedroom with a portable video game in his hand.  He opened the door, faced the toilet directly, stared it square in the bowl and said, “Okay, let’s do this!”

And he did.  And so did Toto.  It took everything he had that night, swallowed it and asked for more.

Again, my breast swelled with the pride of ownership.

It took a while, and I swear my son increased his cheese intake simply to win, if not the war, at least the odd battle against the Toto.  And finally, he succeeded.

Which leads me to the statement I made back in the first of these three posts.  That is, that I knew categorically that the Boy’s “sphincter can expand enough to permit the easy and unimpeded ingress and egress of a very large cat.”

Well think about it.  He’s successfully (and on more than one occasion) blocked the drainage of a device that could “flush a cat.”

People frequently ask me why I write horror.  And here, living in my own home, I live with something spawned in part from my own genetic material.  And he can not only stretch a certain area of his anatomy wide enough to allow the passage of the ugly little dog from Wizard of Oz, he can also store said canine within his bowels for an as yet undetermined duration of time before dropping into a toilet of the same name.

If that doesn’t give you some ideas for a horror novel, hell I don’t know what will.  I live in fear of an animals loosed from the bowels of the Boy successfully climbing back up and out of the Toto and eating my face.

And in the background, the malevolent chuckles of fifteen year old boy content in the knowledge of a job well done.

Bowels of Hell, indeed.