Monthly Archives: August 2011

Finding the Greek

Posted in Canada, Finding Home, Fun, Life, Travel by

Good morning to you. This has got to be a quickie – there’s way too much to do this week, way too much to do today . . . really, I shouldn’t even be typing right now, I ought to be sorting through stuff and packing bags and calling Air Canada . . . but what can a few minutes hurt, right?

So – clearly – vacation is over. BUT, it was lovely despite complications.

We arrive in Corfu two Saturdays ago about 11pm and grabbed a taxi to Kavos. That was the first experience, swervingbetween cars like the driver was in a racing slalom, passing three cars at a time, passing cars that were passing cars,  running off the mopeds and doing 90 km through villages. And yet I wasn’t scared. It was fun.

Then we arrived in Kavos. If whipping along the narrow, busy streets of Corfu doesn’t scare you, arriving in Kavos will do the trick. All I could say was, “Oh my God.”  Choked full of Summer-breaking Brits ages 17-23 having a good time, the taxi was forced to crawl its way along the main road as smashed, high and horny throngs of kids swelled through the road . Panty-dropping pop music didn’t just blast, it kaboomed from every single club (one after the other after the other after the other) trying to compete for attention. It was a bit hilarious, if not also horrible. The taxi driver couldn’t stop laughing.

Anyhow. That was my first impression of Kavos. The noise, the crowd, the party. That Saturday it lasted until about 4am (and yeah, our incredibly well-priced apartment, very clean too, was right over the street in the restaurant area – so it could have been worse, but it was still rather loud) and Zsolt and I used ear plugs to try and get some sleep.

Next morning – Catherine was grumpy.

However, thank goodness my bad impression didn’t last forever. While I’d never again return to Kavos no matter how inexpensive the accommodation, the locals were fabulous and helpful in ‘how to enjoy Greece when there is nothing Greek around you’.

[Interesting aside, I heard a British tour rep call Kavos a ‘resort’ . . .not a town, but a resort . . . as though it had been crafted for the leagues of young Brits that arrived every week. And while I – with my North America gone south experiences of Mexico and Antigua – would never call the vomit-stinking streets (the smell wears off around noon each day) and trashy parade of bars a resort, I can absolutely understand that this town has bent itself to appease the British crowd. It’s basically the American equivalent to Cancun or wherever people go in Florida for spring break. Every restaurant sells Mexican, Texan, or British food. Greek is available, but must be sought out carefully.  Anyhow, she called it a resort, which I thought was sad because it takes away the local identity of those who live and work there – the lovely Greek people with their good humour and long stories. ]

And so we began to explore.

It was a very, very good time. We rented some quad bikes, roamed around the island – driving through olive tree forests at sunset, curving  cliff side roads to the beach, off route farmer’s tracks over to abandoned monasteries, puttered through the quad-bike-wide streets of an unexpected, totally beautiful, and absolutely tiny village on a hill, visited a little restaurant that overlooked the amazing turquoise sea . . .swam, swam, swam . . . and enjoyed, enjoyed, enjoyed.

We even found a ‘secret beach’ which the owner of our hotel let us know about. Only a 40 minute walk from Kavos (20 minute drive on the quad bike), this place was gorgeous, empty and just . . . just a perfect escape from the world.

Despite the first night’s madness (I avoided that scene for the rest of the week, instead at night we played Uno in the flat, or went to the beach, or walked. Once we went out dancing, but I can’t take late nights anymore and abandoned the endeavour about thirty minutes into the evening, letting them go on without me – stupid post-chemo buzz killer.) By the end of the week, I was really freaking pleased with the break. Greece turned out to be an excellent escape.

I am very glad we took the time for a little adventure.

And now – now . . . NOW . . . it’s time to move to Canada.

PS. Another wonderful thing, wearing my bikini – loved it!

Out for lunch, be back soon.

Posted in Fun, Life, Travel by

Okay, I am off to Corfu for the week. Cheap accommodation in Kavos means no internet. Zsolt has plans for us to leave the ‘sleepy’ village of southern Greece (‘run from it’ might be a better phrase) and visit Corfu Town and Albania. Albania. The only thing I know about Albania is there was once a Simpsons character from that area.

But I would like to treat this as a proper vacation, rather than a touring trip with day-in, day-out excursions. There is a pool, there is a beach. I will bring my laptop in hopes of writing more of my generations story. I’m on the sixth generation and she’s just flowing from my fingers like maple syrup onto pancakes.

I’m looking forward to sporting my new bikini and trying something with feta. They do good feta in Greece, right? Ok, honestly the only thing I know about Greece is that the watermelons are larger than . . . than . . . Canadian watermelons.

So wish us luck. And I wish you luck as well with whatever you aspire for the week.

See you later, alligators!

Catherine

Scandal and the bikini boob

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Fun by

Earlier this summer as we set to leave England, I spread my bathing suits and bras across the bed (accumulated over about six years) and began to say goodbye. Goodbye slippery pink cups, goodbye plain white t-shirt bra, goodbye your clever push-up, goodbye string bikini top . . . goodbye. Everything went in the bin (or the charity bag, depending on condition) except for my ancient O’Neil red string bikini – and not because I could wear it to the beach this summer . . . cause really, those triangles are small, but rather because of the memories.

Which was, if you consider it, what the pile of lingerie also was – memories. Memories of boobs. And the deed was done, I had myself a good cry.

But today was lovely. Today-today-today I bought a string bikini. Not a bandeau wrap across the chest, those they are nice too post-mastectomy (particularly since I bought two for eight pounds at Matalon, though I think, perhaps the price is reflected in the quality of my butt-in-bikini, which is why I was on the hunt today for a new, discounted, end-of-the-season quality designer suit.).

Oh, I feel so naughty. Girls with only one breast aren’t meant to wear string bikinis. At least, according to the post-mastectomy land of lingerie product catalogues we aren’t. And I can see the point. Firstly, if we could all get away without the false-breast pockets they would be out of business. Secondly, most women don’t have tiny boob(s), and the difference between right and left would be like staring at a single hill in the middle of a plain. Something like that giant red rock in Australia.

But after going shop to shop and not finding any bandeau style, I just said, “screw this” and tried on a few cuts I never imagined acceptable.

Gosh, I’ll tell you what. If I still had both boobs (say I had reconstruction, or old rightie magically grew back), I’d have scandalized Lake Balaton this summer with my risqué so-damn-near-to-the-nipple outfits of string and fling and bikini hotness, it would have been awesome.  And while that hasn’t happened, I have happily noticed that despite having a neat and tidy scar running across my right chest, it is, one year post surgery, less noticeable.

So I put on this striking blue triangular thing (O’Neil has such fine quality suits) where the area isn’t quite so close to the nipple (which is good, because I’m down one of those) and BAM – Sexy bathing suit Catherine has returned from her summer of cheap, Matalon frumping. My ass looks great; my eyes are popping; and best of all – BEST of all – my boob, while looking small, is not strikingly missing.

Okay, if you know it’s missing, than you aren’t going to miss the ‘missing’ness.   (Am I misusing the miss?)

And I know it’s not cool to brag. Hey, my body isn’t 22 anymore, so yes, I’m fully aware of those cellulite jiggles and mystery circles rippling out from my thighs. But fuck it. I feel pretty. I feel like all those stupid bras and bikini tops last May thrown into the bin (or charity bag) weren’t discarded because I can’t wear them . . . they were tossed because I’m a spanking new woman who needs flattering, lovely clothes.

After all, it never hurts to feel good about yourself. And I never imagined a triangle bikini would ever again make me feel so freaking good.

This post is so absurd. I know it’s all ‘me, me, me’ but I’m excited. It’s like being told you can wear miniskirts again after thirty five (not my rule, I took it from ‘What Not to Wear’ so if you don’t like it, please refer to Stacy and Clinton), if you’ve ever been inclined to wear miniskirts – which, to Zsolt’s disappointment, I’ve never been.

Anyhow. Maybe I look just like any girl on the beach. But Zsolt thinks it’s beautiful too, so there you go.

Happy days, and just in time for my trip to Greece. Boyah! Great stuff. Sorry for so much self-indulgence, but I really needed to cheer.

And to top off this lovely day. Zsolt found a brand of clothing that suits his tall, lean frame and actually makes him look like . . . like a man. Like, a hot man. Like I could just grab him with both hands and sweep him away to never, never land. His outfit, in my opinion, is money well spent.

(Whew! Just had a wee scare. I had dropped my computer-drawing pen and thought it fell behind the radiator, so started groping the ground underneath and stuck my hand right through a thick spider web. Gross. Thankfully, with a second look, the pen actually only fell behind the computer screen. But still, my hand is totally grossed out. And I bet the spiders aren’t too pleased either.)