Journals

I have been undoubtedly lazy in keeping up a journal as of late.   The first week is always the easiest, but then late nights and early mornings begin to take their toll.   To be sure, the rigorous schedule of our excursions coupled with the extensive partying habits of the group leave me with little time and energy to record my thoughts.   No doubt, traveling in the N.M. phase of my journey has had an effect on me as well.   I won’t pretend to complain or beg your sympathy for this, but mention it simply as a way of excusing my own amusement over perceived diligence.   Indeed, there has been a significant lull in my journal.   Far too much has happened for me to attempt to abbreviate it now.   However, my memory will try to do it justice.     Our last day in Corfu was a delightful foray into the obscene.   Aboard George’s Boat for a cruise around Greek waters, we are inundated with his never-ending stream of perverse, sexual humor.   Overweight, balding and Greek to top it off, no girl on the trip is safe from George’s jesting.   Again and again, he tells us to eat the Greek olives he has made so plentiful on his boat, as they are “good for your sex life,” he says.   The boat is relatively small, perhaps intentionally so as to encourage physical contact.   I can’t be sure.   He has stocked his boat with coolers full of 2 euro beers, and provided box wine for the ladies.   He has made shirts and tank-tops, suitable for both sexes, with a 69 on the front and an orgy on the back.   The words "Come!Afloat" are printed alongside it.  These illustrative and graphic tee’s are quite literally just that.  They are an immense hit with most of the group.   Imagining the look on my mother’s face if she ever saw me wearing one, I gladly abstain.      We head to a spot George has dubbed “skinny-dippy island”.   It has become a notorious place for past Contiki patrons to strip down and take a dip in their birthday suit.   No one on this trip is bold enough, or perhaps drunk enough, to follow his wishes.   His deck-hand, who reminds of an Indian pirate, goes naked by himself.   With our trunks on, many of us dive from the front of the boat, plunging 10 feet underwater and re-emerging with water logged ears.   In the midst of such wholesome fun, another tragedy strikes.   While diving, Kaycee from New Zealand manages to lose the engagement ring her fiancé, Karl, gave her last year.   Some of the guys (myself not included) take turns borrowing a scuba mask to comb the ocean floor for a shimmering light.   Again and again they take the plunge.   The rest of us watch in resolved Failure as Karl keeps up the search for 15 minutes more.   Instead of “God save the Queen,” we all hope, please, “God save the ring.”   But alas, he comes up empty handed.   The Kiwi couple is despondent, justifiably so, but in a twisted way, their stroke of bad luck has made me feel better about my own misfortunes.   Wisely, I keep these feelings a secret.   The following morning we depart the treasure-filled waters of Greece and set out on a full day and night cruise across the Adriatic Sea towards Venice .   Despite losing my wallet and experiencing the uncouth Greeks, it was a relaxing three days and my spirits are high.    We tanned, we drank, we conquered.   For the most part.