Bisous d'anniversaire (Birthday Kisses)

The alarm sounded and I woke up to a quieter than normal morning, no stomping feet or little voices yelling in French upstairs. My au pair instincts immediately made me wonder if everything was OK, and fear the all too likely stuck-in-the-house-all-day-with-a-sick-kid sentence. Which of course, on my birthday, would much more painful than usual.

Up, dressed, normal morning routine. Dishes unloaded, bowls set out, cornflakes poured and milk readied for the boys’ voracious morning appetites. My fear had thankfully dissipated when Toby streaked downstairs, half-naked, to grab his clothes, flashing me a big grin and a mischievous “HEHE” before flying back upstairs to get dressed. One healthy child going to school down, one to go.

I poured myself some muesli and cut up a banana (my current favorite breakfast), and even found some strawberries in le frigo for an extra delicious birthday treat. The boys came down, strategically dressed in their Michigan football and Michigan soccer t-shirts, and started blabbering about nothing in particular, totally forgetting about my special day. Because part of me is still 6 years old, and I don’t think I’ll ever tire of my own birthdays, I said, “So my mummy sent me 3 birthday cards on the computer this morning,” just to have someone to talk to and share my excitement with.
“AHHH,” Benji exclaimed, “And did she send you presents through the computer, too?”

“No sweetie, you can’t really do that” I replied, secretly wishing you could, and that I was now in possession of a massive stack of colorfully wrapped and bowed packages.

Toby looked over at me, gave me a goofy, head-tilted grin, and told me, “happy birthday les nanas” (les nanas is colloquial French for “the girls,” and was the only form of address used by Toby, Benji and Marc to Julie and me while she was still living with us.)

Seeming as though my birthday excitement with the kids had lived it’s rapidly combustible life span of 4 minutes, I went back to enjoying my muesli, losing myself in thoughts about the nice day ahead; baking a cake, reading in the park while the boys went to judo, and later attending the au pair meeting, where they would be talking about preparing to re-enter your home country….even just talking about it makes it seem closer! Deeply and pensively staring into my cereal bowl, I didn’t even hear Marc come down and give a sleepy, half-hearted “Bonjour.” I looked up as the kids immediately barraged their papa with questions and requests. As Marc went to pour himself some cornflakes, he looked over at me and questioned, “Aujourd’hui c’est to anniversaire, toi ?(Today’s your birthday, right?”).

“Oui,” I replied, half shocked he had remembered, despite the fact the kids had been talking about his birthday (June 13, the day before mine) and mine for the past 2 weeks.

He walked towards the fridge, going to get what I had presumed to be the milk, but then swooped in for the trois bisous (three kisses) that are apparently customary to give on someone’s birthday. The first time I gave bisous to Marc I was jet-lagged, semi-drugged, and in shock about my new life with the family, that I’d been living for all of an hour and a half. I happily report that this time was (marginally) better. While I still had muesli in my mouth, I was successfully able to negotiate my cheeks and his without A) accidentally kissing him on the lips or B) inadvertently spitting muesli in his face.

After this fait was accompli, I watched Toby pull over his Papa and beckon him to bend down, so he could whisper something in his ear. Marc reached in the chair and scooped Toby up, his strong arms flying him through the air until he was face to face with me. Toby smiled, then moved in, giving me three big, wet, adorable little-kid kisses on the cheek before finally hugging me and whispering in my ear, “happy birthday Meggie.”

I was grinning like a fool. This is a child who shows minimal, if any, affection for me, and whose daily emotional response towards me is indifference. Benji saw what his brother was doing and, the little crowd pleaser that he is, requested for his Papa to do the same thing. Boy number 2 flew through the air, landing on my lap and giving me my bisous, a bear hug, and nestling his head into my neck and purring like a kitten (Benji’s trademark, he’s obsessed with kittens and puppies right now).

The morning carried on as normal. I cleared the dishes, stood vigilant in the bathroom making sure both boys actually brushed their teeth, not just eating the toothpaste and wriggling the brush around in their mouths, then took them to school. Walking back, I thought about birthdays past. Being 19, and having my cousin Kalli pile as many of my friends as possible into his Blazer, buy us a fifth of (in retrospect) nasty orange Smirnoff, and drive us to Canada, where we proceeded to get drunk off of sickly sweet Long-Island iced teas and dance the night away like fools, getting our first glimpse of the bar culture we would frequent over the many years to come (thanks again Kal, love you!). My 21st, where I met all my friends at the Ann Arbor underage institution Scorekeepers, and drank my night away feeling like a celebrity, while someone kept a tally of my drinks in black marker on my arm. I remember how much fun it was until I couldn’t remember anything, then feeling so grateful to my mom and dad when they were understanding about me spending the next 24 hours on the couch, and not wanting to go out to our favorite fancy restaurant the next night.

My birthday en Suisse will be ordinary. I’ll work, do dishes, do laundry, and probably go to bed at a decent hour. I will however have my favorite dinner (9 jewel spicy vegetable curry), a *hopefully* delicious cake that two of my good friends are coming over to bake shortly, and most importantly the love and affection of two amazing little boys, and the respect and kindness of their father, a man whom I wholeheartedly respect.

And of course, my 9 cherished Bisous d'anniversaire, birthday kisses that I will never forget.

Griswold Family Vacation: Part Deux

The moment our plane lifted off the Barcelona Runway, I felt relief in place of my standard emotion; impending doom of certain death. Four hours later, we touched down in Athens just before sunset, savoring the beautiful landscape of rolling hills, odd shaped trees (possibly olive?), and the much needed newness of it all.

We found a (rather seedy) hostel in Athens, and started to plan our Greek island adventure. At this point, we had been through so much that we decided to go all out, and take the high speed ferry to the volcanic island of Santorini, where we could relax on the black sand beaches below dramatic cliffs of hardened lava.

In the early AM, we trekked to the port, and after the unexpected and delicious Greek breakfast specialty of Mocha Frappuccinos, we were on our way. Five smoky and expensive hours later, we arrived at the island. Because we were flying by the seat of our pants, and making up our plans as we went, we had no planned place to stay. Walking off the ferry, we were immediately accosted by hotel owners, shadily flashing us pictures of their accommodations, assuring us that, “just for you, this 15 euro.”

One large Greek man approached us and offered a private studio with kitchen and balcony, 200 meters from the beach. We were interested. He started at 20 euro per person a night, but after playing a little hard ball got it down to 10. Considering the youth hostel right down the street was more expensive, it was a pretty great deal. We gathered our bags and went to wait for Costa (the owner) to drive us to the hotel…transfer from the port being included in the price. And then we saw his transportation. All white “kidnapper” style van with one sliding door and completely blacked out windows. Gulp. We had no reason not to trust him, but as he shut the door and fired up the sputtery engine, we couldn’t help but exchanging glances of, “shit, what have we gotten ourselves into now.”

Lighting up a cigarette with one hand, controlling the bouncing vehicle with the other, we flew up the side of the island. With winding roads not much larger than the van, we cringed when other cars came to pass--- the two options were collision on one side, cliff diving on the other! When we finally made it on flat ground, I couldn’t help but letting my mind wander, and wonder if the three of us girls could fend off a large Greek man, who probably weighed more than a small horse, if need be when……..

We finally arrived at our destination; a small, typical Greek villa, absolutely beautiful with bright blue domed roofs and flower vines snaking beautifully up the stairs and over the terraces. Brightly colored tiles led the way into our room, surprisingly the exact picture Costa had shown and described to us, view of the Aegan sea.

Settled in, we put on our bathing suits as fast as we could, grabbed a quick gyro for lunch (ridiculous restaurant, complete with caged bird hanging over our table) and made a beeline for the beach. The black sand and volcanic cliffs shooting straight over our heads were pure heaven—after going through hell and back these last 2 days, we all were able to sink our feet in the sand, and finally really relax, soaking up the sun along the way.

The rest of the day was perfect. We rejoiced in having our own private bathroom, not having to walk half naked down a co-ed hall, showering in thin curtained stalls as throngs of people milled about mere feet away. A great dinner, some wine, and a nice walk later, we were ready to call it a night. Sprawling out on the comfortable bed, I couldn’t help but think that the worse was over and our luck was finally changing…….

Until I woke up the next morning. Opening the blinds, there were clouds all around. Stepping out of the balcony, I wanted to jump right back in to grab a sweater. Crap. It was to be a cold, then rainy day in Santorini. The beach was obviously out, and as we went to rent mopeds to explore the island, a steady downpour dampened our spirits further. So what to do on a Greek Isle when it rains? Our solution was shopping, food, and booze. We walked around Fira, the capitol, and drank, ate and tried to be merry. There were winding stone paths up the sides of the cliffs, and with the amazingly beautiful views it was hard to be bummed out with the cold and rain. That night we finished off the rum we had started in Barcelona, and then went out to the “Moon Bar,” where about 3 other tourists and 6 locals had congregated to drink and dance. The music and atmosphere made it like the Rick’s of Santorini….only tourist season doesn’t really start until the end of June, so people were scarce. No matter. We danced it up, drank it up, and tried to forget the sound of rain pouring above on the tin roof.

We woke up to more pouring rain the next day, and as we had already done pretty much all you can do on an island when it rains, we decided to head back to Athens. Oh Athens. We spent the next 3 days there, which was quite the experience. Our perpetual black cloud was still following us around, so it was cloudy and rainy every day we were there. The highlights of Athens were definitely the Acropolis and Parthenon, which is deceptively high above the city, the flea market in the Plaka, and the Olympic stadium. Besides seeing the sights, we had some great food (tons of greek salad, gyros, and Moussaka, a traditional Greek dish with potato, eggplant, meat and cheese in lasagna form), and some really fun times drinking on our hostel’s rooftop terrace with a stunning view of the Acropolis.

Drunkenly wandering the streets of Athens, being chased by the numerous packs of wild dogs that inhabited the city, we cursed Apollo, the sun God, demanding the reason for his obvious disdain at our presence in Greece. Although it didn’t seem funny at the time, now I look back and laugh at the utter hilarity of the entire vacation (if you can even call it that). The disgusting dorm, the ridiculously incompetent Spanish security, our flights on Alitalia where the steward interrogated a slightly middle eastern looking man as to whether or not he ate pork before handing him his in-flight snack ham sandwich, the incessant, unending rain, and the admittance by management at our last hostel that they hadn’t done laundry in 3 days—2 days after we had arrived (yuck).

Comfortably back in Geneva, I’ve had time to reflect on the trip, the ridiculousness and the seriousness of it all. Lessons were learned, tears were shed, and laughter was shared. One of the most intense, scary, exciting 2 weeks of my life, this experience is one I will never forget. I’ve already replaced the things I lost, in fact my new camera and ipod should be arriving in 3 days. But the memories will be etched in my mind for the rest of my life. The only way I can sum it up: this trip, it was quite a TRIP.

The end.