THE MOON OF HONEY
For the last four days we have been on
honeymoon (yes, I’m blogging on honeymoon, but in all fairness I don’t keep a
diary so this is my version of documenting life…and my husband is watching
Grand Prix as I write this); I think it’s been four days? To be honest, it’s
all been a bit of a blur due to the fact that we are finally sleeping and have
plunged into a state of mind numbing relaxation. Trust me, this is a totally foreign
state to both my husband and I and it took many days to get here.
Upon arriving at the hotel we were greeted
by the friendliest staff imaginable, which coming from London where customer
service is nonexistent, we found a tad shocking (why are they smiling at us? Do
we have something in our teeth?). After being congratulated on our marital state
by all, including the man that delivered our luggage to our room – at least I
think he was congratulating us, I don’t understand Greek - we were shown around
the breathtaking grounds of the hotel and then led to our oceanfront room (okay
I’m gloating, but why hide the bliss, you know what I mean?)
Upon entering our room we were met by a
woman who was holding a tray of champagne and a variety of decadent snacks. I thought
my husband was going to hug her. Of course on the bed were the requisite flower
petals in the shape of a heart - at
least it didn’t spell out love – and by the bed, a dish of honey with walnuts.
We were told this was a Greek tradition to bless a marriage, or make you
incredibly fat. My hips were quickly starting to realize that this trip was
not going to be kind to them.
The first few days of the honeymoon consisted
of us cramming in as much as humanly possible in some sort of delirious fog
whilst my husband asked me what time it was every five minutes (he claims this
obsession was because he wanted to fit in as much as humanly possible). Every
time a staff member remarked at how much we were doing and we should simply
relax (it was said in a sweet, Grecian way of course) we would dole out our
stock response with glazed eyes: “We have a kid back home.” It’s amazing
how this statement renders any recipient speechless and is followed by an all
too-knowing nod, followed by: “Go in (maniac infused) peace, and get it all in while you
can!”
So, after doing every conceivable activity:
working out, spa appointments, tennis (damn, was that amusing for the guests
walking past our court. Agassi and Graff we are NOT), biking, and trolling the prodigious
buffet like winter starved animals (this was no run of the mill buffet I assure
you. I’m from America, I’ve seen my fair share) and sleeping a ton, we finally
began to downshift into profound mind-numbing relaxation. Then again, it
could’ve been the three pounds of feta cheese and homemade bread we had consumed
over the course of the first two days that finally slowed us down.
From that point on, we began that slow
motion amble that most guests adopt a few days into their stay. We’d amble to
the restaurant, amble to the buffet (I shall keep mentioning the buffet, cause
LORD was it glorious. Again, my hips didn’t think so), amble to the lounge
chair, amble into the ocean – well sort of, it was cold as hell and we’d have
to count in unison and then run in screaming – amble to the pool. You get the idea. We’d even amble in and out of bed like to aching
eighty year olds (I blame the tennis) without a care in the world or what time
it was – although that said, we were amusingly always aware of what time
breakfast was being served.
During this zoned out ambling we’d of
course find time for our other favorite activity (get your mind out of the
gutter) which was people watching, and our hotel was happily rife with things
to gawk at. We had plenty staff to vote on in order of competency and emotional
stability (so much fun); many Eastern Europeans to play ‘name that language’ with – Estonian,
a total mystery; or the even more fun game of trying to figure out ‘how long
have they been married?’ according to how much couples spoke to one another at
meal times. (I know I know, catty as hell, but at least we can admit it). There
were also outfits to dissect – oh so many wedge heels and sparkly short shirts
that were deemed dresses and outfits my husband would give funny names: "here
comes leopard floaty dress girl and clown pants guy!"
Then there was the ‘posing’ couple as we
called them. She was young and long legged and he was always hiding under a hat
lugging around a large camera. The best part, they would wander around the
hotel and she would pose in front of every conceivable spot in the most
provocative of ways. Of course this would amuse my husband to no end and he
would nudge me to attention as she did some backbend in front of a fountain. Of
course, from there on out whenever he wanted to take a photo of me, my simple
stance of smiling, arms by my side, just didn’t cut it.
The only thing hindering our total blissed
out state was the fact that despite our best efforts, the King’s absence was
heavily felt especially when we’d gaze upon other families bonding and having
fun. We would then remark at all the things that the King would heavily dig –
the buffet of course and the long legged Russians. Then again, at the first sight
of a child’s tantrum or an exhausted parent pushing their toddler around the
grounds in a pram for the fiftieth time in hopes of sleep, we’d quickly remind
each other that the King rocks, but total halcyon bliss rocks harder….as does
twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep and a trip to the spa.