Rendezvous with Mark in London went as planned. Long flight to Chicago was boring as expected. Temperatures in Columbus made us shiver as feared. It was a long grueling day, but four furry faces were waiting for us when we got home. 
I had really logged a good distance on my feet yesterday, so my first decision was to try to take it easy. Before the cruise, Mark and I had not gone into Sagrada Familia, so I decided to go back and spend more time there. And instead of walking the two miles from my hotel, I would take the subway. 
This being a weekend, a crowd was gathering. To get in, I had to stand in line for about half an hour, but it was totally worth it. The interior is far from finished, but there is a great exhibit explaining Gaudí’s influences from nature (the columns are meant to look like tree trunks, for example). And in the basement, there’s an even larger exhibit chronicling Gaudí’s life, work, and death under the wheels of a tram. Oops.
Armed with this knowledge, and fed up with the subway system, I walked the several blocks to one of Gaudí’s other masterpieces, the apartment building known as Casa Milà. Though the building is occupied, you can pay to enter its public spaces, including the roof. This time the queue of tourists was around the block, so forget it. My feet hurt! I can’t stand in another line. 
Casa Milà is on the street named Passeig de Gràcia, which is lined with grand buildings that try to outdo each other with their fancy facades. So I turned to walk down this posh boulevard, with its designer boutiques and elegant hotels. Unfortunately, you just can’t get a good enough angle on any of the buildings to capture the whole facade in one shot, so I gave up trying. I’ve been a photo-taking fool, so it was nice to be off duty. 
The street took me back to Plaça Catalunya, not far from my hotel and the top end of Las Ramblas. I had high hopes for this enormous square – but where were the young lovers, the protesters, the crazy people? The scariest thing I saw was children feeding pigeons. And then there was Bicycle Guy, standing all alone in the bull’s-eye of the plaza. I think he was waiting for his Craig’s List date to show up.
After a lingering lunch/sore foot respite, I decided to take another wander through the Gothic Quarter. Mark and I had grazed it before the cruise, but it would be my last chance to scratch the old-European-buildings itch for a while. I found the Picasso Museum, but didn’t go in. I saw young lovers, but found the guy too slimy to photograph. I entered numerous hipster shops and bought my nephew a funny T-shirt. I was too tired for culture, but I’m never too tired for a laugh.
The streets are such a maze that even with my mad map skillz, I got lost. Eventually I found myself back on Las Ramblas. Some kind of loud, nutty gathering was going on – honestly I couldn’t tell if it was a political demonstration or a gay pride parade. 
My hotel is near the upper end of Las Ramblas, so I started my day by walking down this famous boulevard. I soon encountered the bird market, where street stalls operated by numerous vendors sell parakeets and other birds – plus rabbits, turtles, hamsters, fish, etc. 
Tourists like me were snapping pictures like we were at a zoo. But it’s an open-air pet store where locals come to buy their pets. I saw one vendor put a canary into a little cardboard box, which she then placed in a plastic bag and handed to a father and daughter. I couldn't help but imagine that panicked little bird riding home on the subway with them....
I have no idea how long these critters live in these cages. And even though the vendors seemed rather unsentimental about the animals in their care, I didn’t see any abuse. Still, I started to get uncomfortable about the whole thing and had to move on. It was making me very homesick for my own pets anyway.
The next group of vendors on Las Ramblas specializes in flowers, which was pretty and uplifting. But woven in between all these stalls are street performers in very elaborate costumes. They do the standing-perfectly-still thing, but will interact with you if you approach. You can also pose for photos with them if you throw a Euro or two into the hat. I found them most entertaining, however, when they broke character and took a smoke break – still in their costumes, of course.
And so I arrived at La Boqueria, the enormous Barcelona food market – covered, but open air – that is just steps off Las Ramblas. I embarrass Mark on every vacation when I take pictures of butchers’ windows. I’m a carnivore, and I have the usual mix of denial and hypocrisy about where my protein comes from. That is: I couldn’t do the slaughtering, but I’m happy to do the eating. And I’m kind of fascinated that meat is displayed more, um, bluntly in Europe than it is at home. Wait, wasn't I just feeling sorry for animals about 5 minutes ago?
Anyway, La Boqueria isn’t just about meat. There are fruits (fresh, dried and candied), vegetables, nuts, mushrooms, spices, chocolates, eggs, and dozens of varieties of seafood – all piled high in hypnotic displays. The place is an ever-changing, noisy, smelly, colorful work of art. I loved it.
I stopped at a sidewalk café for a “bikini” sandwich (grilled cheese with ham), then walked over to the funicular and cable cars that take you to the castle on Montjuïc. Once a place where Francisco Franco threw independence-minded Catalonians in jail, the castle is now part of a huge city park. The Olympic stadium is nearby, as is a Miró museum. But I headed the other way, toward the cliff that overlooks the port. Through the haze I saw our ship, loading up a new set of passengers. Hope they have strong stomachs.
Walking a path that hugs the edge, I meandered down to another cable car. This one crosses over to the port, then continues to Barceloneta – a neighborhood I wanted to explore. But on this day the cars were only going half-way. I plunked down my 7 Euros anyway. By the time I had taken the ride and walked back to Las Ramblas, my dogs were barking. 
We visited the little room that overlooks the bridge, and saw the ship's officers looking relaxed but clearly interested in some ships off to our right. We made a beeline back to our cabin for a better view. Mark insists these are British warships, but I can’t tell. Whatever they are, it was a little dose of reality -- and a reminder that our cruise fantasyland was coming to an end. With all the cultures we’d seen, and the illness we shall never speak of again, it seemed like we’d been away from home for a very long time.
Today the ship docked on the island nation of Malta. I didn’t know what to expect, because I knew nothing about Malta. Mark told me that it “used to be British” (oh, weren’t they all?) and that it was an important player in WWII. Its location between Sicily and northern Africa was convenient, no doubt.
But Malta’s history goes back thousands of years. The town where we docked, Valletta, is a rocky pile of fortifications that rise up out of the sea and completely surround the oldest part of the city. Within those walls, the narrow streets and crumbling buildings reveal influences of many cultures.
I saw Italy in the decaying charm of the stonework. I saw Morocco in the wooden balconies that project from every building. I saw Croatia in the tiny lanes with equally tiny shops. And Mark, of course, saw Britain in the form of Marks & Spencer. Malta’s position at the junction of ancient sea-lanes means it’s been conquered numerous times, but it’s independent now. Apparently theirs is the only Arabic-based language that uses the Roman alphabet. 
Anyway, it’s a great place to wander, and I loved it. Mark was interested in finding a geo-cache, and I waited in a scenic plaza while he went down a side street in hot pursuit. There he met another cacher (some Dutch dude) and they rounded the corner together and the Dutch guy waved at me. Just wanted proof that nerds do marry, I suppose.
We bought sandwiches in the Marks & Spencer food hall, and ate them on a park bench. I dragged Mark into a couple of jewelry stores and bought some silver filigree earrings. Malta is famous for filigree work, and we got to watch one proprietor make the tiny curls with nothing more than tweezers and swift, skilled hands. He complained that it’s a dying art because young people don’t want to learn the craft. I believe him, and understood his sadness… but I wouldn’t want to do that work either!
Malta is also famous for glasswork, so we bought a pretty paperweight for my mom, and almost bought one of these cute pigs. But we snapped out of it and settled for a more tasteful little glass tray thingy. Not sure it’s any more useful than a pig, though.
Time to head back to the ship, so we emerged from the walled city and found ourselves on a big plaza where all the buses converge. Apparently Malta is famous for one more thing: orange buses. And once a bus is shipped to the island, it’s maintained to run forever. We saw all eras of bus manufacture represented. Check out the tailfins on this one.
It was starting to rain as we got back on the ship, and just as it got dark we had a dramatic exit from the port. We had to slide sideways into a small basin and rotate 180 degrees before we could weave back out through the narrow opening between the breakwaters. The catch? Our ship is 900 feet long. There was another large ship in the harbor, and at one point we were perpendicular to it, with little room to spare. It was a slow-moving feat, but incredibly thrilling. Another fancy bit of navigation by our captain.
I played another fruitless round of bingo, then had a frangipani wrap in the spa. This involves getting slathered in oil and being wrapped in a foil blanket. A nice, young Australian woman named Pia did the slathering.
After rushing back to the cabin, then lying low for a 2-hour rest, I did Take Two and this time managed to buy some souvenirs, including Diet Coke with Arabic writing on the can. If only they offered shore excursions that took you directly to the local grocery stores.
Later, I finally had the energy to explore all the parts of the ship I hadn’t seen yet. The weather was the warmest we’ve had so far (60s) and some people were using the pool. I’ve stepped up my showering since getting sick, so there was no urge to share water with others.
I was determined to see the Pyramids, so as we pulled into Alexandria, I got up early and attempted to resume human life. When I went to the buffet to fetch some rolls and fruit, I noticed that hand-sanitizer dispensers were now in the elevators. At the buffet, you could no longer help yourself. The legions of young, polite restaurant attendants were now working double-time and wearing plastic gloves. Jeez, I thought it was food poisoning. Could it be contagious?
A three-hour drive to Giza would test anyone’s patience. But this is a drive through grotty Alexandria, past desert-hugging pigeon farms (you heard me), and back into urban dreck – on a road under construction, in a bus that needs new shocks. One woman, whose illness was just hitting her, spent the ride filling up barf bags and visiting the chemical toilet nestled by the back stairs. 
Adrenaline kept the rest of us going, and finally we could see the Pyramids on the horizon. We pulled into a sea of stinky buses between the two larger pyramids, and were given about half an hour to look around. Trust me, that is not enough time. But I took some photos, dodged some camels, and was approached by 317 vendors. 
Back into the bus to shuttle up the hill for a different vantage point where it was possible to take photos of all 3 of the famous Giza Pyramids at once. (Did you know there are also several smaller ones nearby?) Then a drive down the hill to see the Sphinx. It’s not as big as you might think, but it sure is beautiful. And, of course, we were not really given enough time to fully explore the area.
Our guide, Mona, wore a colorful headscarf and blue jeans. She is 39, educated, and that day received a phone call from her 14-year-old son who had just learned his scores on some major exams. He attends a school in the British system, which, she says, offers the best chance to pursue a college degree outside Egypt.
So Cairo may not be repressive, but it is a dump. I mean this literally (there is garbage in the streets) and figuratively, in that there seems to be, shall we say, a more relaxed pursuit of public cleanliness. Mona told us that the locals don’t care what the outside of their houses look like (another guide revealed that you must pay more tax once your residence is “finished”) so they often look tumble-down from the outside, even if they are brand new. We frequently saw re-bar sticking up from the rooftops in case the next generation wants to build above – or perhaps to prove that the building is unfinished.
After the belly dancer did her thing, causing a blushing face or two, some dude in a twirly cape spun around and around and worked up a sweat. Then, just as I’d always dreamed, a crooner of sorts provided his interpretations of Frank Sinatra songs. There was a Viggo Mortensen lookalike sitting across from me at my table, and we shared a “this is way weird!” look.
Next stop was the Citadel of Saladin which contains the mosque of Mohammed Ali. It has a beautiful exterior made with alabaster (dirty, of course), and we had to take off or cover our shoes to go inside.
Expansive views of Cairo were possible from the ramparts of the citadel, and through the haze you could see the pyramids in the distance. There were more families and couples there, which was sweet to see. 
After an overnight journey that weaved its way through numerous Greek islands and around a Turkish peninsula, we arrived in the port of Izmir. The weather was rainy, but the landscape lovely. Our tour took us to the early Greco-Roman city of Ephesus, which was a bigger deal than we expected. A coastal town, Ephesus was built on a sloping piece of land and included statue-lined streets, houses, shops, a library (with bordello across the street) and a 25,000-seat amphitheater. 
The site was never forgotten, and therefore didn’t need to be “discovered.” But it did need to be excavated, because the river that silted up (moving the coastline further away and killing the town) also buried some of the ruins. Time did the rest of the work. The ruins have to be dug out, like those at Pompeii – only here they’re not digging through lava. This was an older settlement, too. You can tell because of the presence of Greek lettering, not just Latin.
Anyway, the place was a pleasant surprise in that it was bigger and more beautiful than we had imagined. The weather, unfortunately, was chilly and rainy the whole time, and we were soaked to the bone by the time we left. Our guide had it worst, though. Having navigated all the slippery marble streets without incident, she later fell on a gravel path and really banged up her knee. I gave her some Advil (which I’m always packin’).
Educated, liberated, modern Nunya was an awesome guide. She didn’t hesitate to share her opinions of how Turkey has been getting the shaft from the E.U. She made the persuasive argument that the E.U. repeatedly rejecting Turkey only encourages terrorists by “proving” that the West is anti-Muslim. She believes that the true Turkey is secular, and is disgusted to see the rise of extremism. She believes that joining the E.U. would help quell it. When the microphone was off, I asked her about the Kurds. Her views were less progressive on this topic, but I appreciated her honesty.
Next stop was a rug factory, which – despite being a sales pitch – provided good demonstrations of how silk is collected, rugs are made, and how handsome Turkish men can unroll rugs with a flourish. Hello, Akbar.
But by the time we got back to the port we were hungry, so we popped into a nearby restaurant for some local food. Fancy and delicious lamb dishes were served immediately, and we sampled the local beer. We ate quickly because we were in a hurry, and because we were totally rav. 
