Who's Afraid Of The Big Bad Bogeyman?

A few weeks ago, My Zolpidem Supplier invited The Wife, Ph.D., My Life Coach and me over for a housewarming dinner. Throughout the night, the conversation was vibrant and intellectually stimulating yet excessively whiny as it often is when you round up four US-educated transplants to The Rock and massage their vocal chords with alcohol. Soon enough we began discussing child-rearing practices and how they vary from culture to culture. Someone mentioned that most countries have their own version of the bogeyman, that creepy figment of an exhausted adult's imagination that inhabits closets or crouches under beds waiting for an opportune chance to scare the living shit out of a naughty three-year old or drag him away to a distant land where candy tastes like boiled liver and iPods drop peas instead of pop. We laughed about the Baboulas and El Cuco and El Ogro and Luis Alberto Suarez, Ghana's new version of the bogeyman. Then, in a Zen-like moment, I deadpanned: "If our children misbehave, we will just tell them to pack their bags 'cus La Migra is en route to ship their unruly asses back to Quito."

2010 Aes Ambelis Rose (Maratheftiko & Lefkada) - Its seductive bouquet is dominated by candied cherries, strawberries, raspberries and a minty/herbal component. It has a nice attack of strawberry and pomegranate on the front end but shortly thereafter veers off and dies down. Very short wine that I believe would have benefited from added acidity. 85/100.

2007 Ktima Argyrides Maratheftiko - This wine won the Grand Gold Medal at the 4th Cyprus Wine Competition held in 2009. Dark fruit (blueberry, blackberry and plum) complemented by savory notes of olives and black pepper on the nose. Dark fruit, bubble gum (?!?) in the mid-palate, coffee, cinnamon and vanilla. Quite tannic and the alcohol spikes a bit. 87/100.

Kir Royale With Cheese

I am not too fond of mixed drinks. Back in my teens and twenties, when I was naive and far from a purist, I didn't have a problem walking up to a bar and ordering a Mojito, Margarita, vanilla Stolichnaya and Coke, Cuba Libre or Tom Collins with a splash of Cointreau. Now, however, I cringe at the thought of alcohol sharing a tumbler with juice or soft drinks or other less palatable liqueurs. I actually find it insulting since alcohol--be it whiskey, rum, tequila or vodka--should be served neat or (worst-case scenario) on the rocks. Hence, I prefer to stick to beer and wine (and whiskey on ice at weddings since its powers gets me moonwalking, spinning, flailing my arms and grabbing my crotch on the dance floor in no time.)

So you can only imagine my dismay when several weeks ago I walked into Silver Star to find My Zolpidem Supplier and her cousin each merrily sipping on a Kir Royale, a champagne and creme de cassis concoction. It's a wine bar, for God's sake! I whined. Then I foolishly realized they were waiting for The Wife, Ph.D., and me to select a bottle considering my faux expertise, which at the end of the night proved to be just that: a fraud. But, in my defense, the establishment did not help my case as purported wine authority among my fancy friends.

Silver Star Wine Bar is owned by Cava Nostra and is located in downtown Nicosia right across the street from the wine retail shop. According to the Brother-in-Law, the bar is housed in a former watering hole for call girls, horny patrons and other seedy characters. The pleasant outside smoking area consists of a few old oak barrels set on their sides to serve as tables, some stools and heat lamps. The inside, however, seems to have only been cosmetically retouched and remains a melange of Asian-inspired, Art Deco, Southwestern (Cowboy) and minimalist styles. I surmise that little thought went into decorating (God forbid renovating) and transforming the space into a thematically-consistent one. One room has a tall long table with a few stools and three lower tables in the back corner where a bright-lit silver-ish star hangs on the wall. The other room is dominated by a bar with a blue backdrop and mirrors, some scattered plants and what I think is a traditional Japanese umbrella hanging from the ceiling. Worst of all, the floors of the place, old fashioned spotted tiles vaguely reminiscent of hospital floors, add to the helter skelter.

Now to the crux of the matter: the wine list. Very underwhelming for a bar that is owned by a wine shop located just a short hop, skip and jump away. One would think that with access to an entire cellar one would have a lot more than roughly 25 bottles to pick from. The wine shop was open when we visited Silver Star so maybe we could have stumbled in, chosen a bottle not listed in the bar's menu and uncorked it across the street without the usual price markup. If this is the case, then it should be advertised somewhere since such an option would be awfully attractive to a broad spectrum of wine lovers.

We started off with either the 2006 or 2007 (The Wife, Ph.D., was note-taking and in her drunken stupor she mistakenly jotted down 2010, an impossibility unless we have access to a pimped-out Delorean DMC-12) Gran Sangre de Toro Reserva, a Garnacha Tinta, Mazuelo or Carignan, and Shiraz blend from Spain. Nose-wise, the wine was all over the place: charcoal, leather, guava, barnyard, herds of sheep under a light drizzle, pepper and burnt popcorn. In what will go down as one of the best vinous descriptors in the short history of this blog, My Zolpidem Supplier's cousin described the wine as smelling "like a dirty moist mop head and a brand new car." Taste-wise, it was dominated by red fruit and earth and really failed to tickle our palates.

The girls were so disappointed that I was rushed into picking a second bottle just to tone down their tongue-lashing. Continuing with the evening's Spanish theme, I selected the 2006 Marques de Riscal Reserva, a Tempranillo, Graciano and Mazuelo or Carignan blend, and again I let them down. I felt like the dorky bespectacled college freshman who gets a second chance in the backseat of a Honda CRV with the college's hot svelte head cheerleader and repeatedly stalls when transitioning from first to second gear and putters to a stop due to a massive oil leak. The wine had touches of red fruit, wet earth, dust, vanilla, cinnamon and dark chocolate, as well as green components including green peppers and spinach according to one of my female companions. So memorable that The Wife, Ph.D., and I enjoyably doused ourselves in the bull's blood.

By the end of the night, I slouched in that back room with my head down contemplating my demise. I had disappointed my wife and her friends. Perhaps it was time for me to abandon wine and focus instead on my forehand, serve and volleys, or develop a potent left-footed shot a la Roberto Carlos. Or possibly I am meant to escape to Madrid to live among my kind and study the role of religion in the lives of bereft Ecuadorian immigrants. Then again, maybe all life was trying to tell me that gloomy night was that sometimes a mixed drink doesn't sound so bad after all.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 3 (On Potential Alone) Out Of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

Married Madness In Three Acts

Act I

Friday evening. The Wife, Ph.D., is drained after another long work week with a red pen in hand, sore vocal chords and dwindling patience. She tells me she wants to stay home. She says she wants homemade pizza and red wine. I oblige since any meal involving those two items rattles me alive. A leftover chicken breast, a red onion, some mozzarella and barbecue sauce are put to good use. My apologies to California Pizza Kitchen. Please don't sue me; this blog has not yet turned a profit.

That night in her sleep, The Wife, Ph.D., barks out instructions to her science students and frequently twitches her hand as if she were doodling cherry checks, crosses, stars and happy faces on the white sheets. Habits die hard and restless nights die harder.

2007 Villa Maria Private Bin Merlot Cabernet Sauvignon (Hawkes Bay, New Zealand) - Wonderful deep red color. Very tight bouquet with hints of raspberries, cherries and cinnamon. Bitter tannins and quite disjointed. The Wife, Ph.D., was totally disappointed. 85/100.

Act II

Saturday night. The Wife, Ph.D., is a homebody. She tells me she wants to stay home. She says she wants homemade pizza and red wine. I am happy to cater to her desires. It is round three of the NCAA Basketball Tournament (Greatest. Sporting. Event. Ever.) and I would rather glue my eyes to the screen than abandon my comfortable cocoon and metamorphose into a faux social butterfly somewhere out and about. The games start at six p.m. and end at around five a.m. so I give The Wife, Ph.D., a few hours of quality family time in the shape of a Neapolitan pizza and an average-to-detestable chick-flick. Unsurprisingly, she falls asleep on the couch twenty minutes into the movie, I think the lead actress had just been transformed into a zombie elfish vampire by an evil sorcerer played by James Franco and she was Googling antidotes to her predicament. I sigh and switch the channel just in time to see another buzzer beater. Bless March Madness.

2007 Domaine Argyrides Mourverdre (Cyprus) - Earth-driven aromas of mulch and tobacco with nuances of spice and red fruit. Lovely red fruit on the palate with some good spice and a short finish. Alcohol spikes towards the end but overall a good effort. 88/100.

Act III

Another Friday night. This time it is delivery Chinese food and red wine. The Wife, Ph.D., wants to uncork a bottle of 2008 or 2009 Palo Alto Red, a Cabernet Sauvignon, Carmenere and Shiraz blend from Chile that has become our preferred everyday wine. I veto her call and go with an island wine instead. She complains about my "job" but calms down once she starts juggling a broccoli floret and a mushroom with her chopsticks. She takes a sip of the wine, smirks and reminds me that she's always right. Her glass goes untouched for the remainder of the evening and a nearby voice that yelps "Bad Student! Principal's Office! Palo Alto! A-Plus!" startles me awake at four thirty-five am.

2008 Aes Ambelis Cabernet Sauvignon (Cyprus) - This wine did not show as well as the last time we tried it. Tight bouquet with a touch of mint, smokiness and some earth. Cherry, raspberry, eucalyptus, tea leaves and pepper on the mouth. A green and bitter finish. 85/100.

A Gluttunous Disposition

I have a growing and rather disturbing obsession with pork shanks. Succulent, slow-roasted pig legs lightly rubbed with dried herbs, salt and pepper. Scrape off the slushy fat that separates its golden crunchy skin from the tender meat and get to work like a gentile. Pick the meat with your fingers. Dip a slab of skin in hot mustard and bite into it as if it were the perfect cracker. Lick the bone clean and burp. There is no need for potatoes or salad or any other unexciting foods that would detract from your devouring of Miss Piggy's chunky inner thigh. All you need is a chilled beer and a gluttonous disposition.

Souxou Mouxou Mantalakia is a smallish Greek tavern nestled off of Ledra Street in old Nicosia. Many Cypriots had told me they were disappointed with the food so one weekend not too long ago I decided to see for myself with The Wife, Ph.D., Cousin #1 and Cousin #4 in tow. The place itself is quite casual with light wooden furniture, some sparse decorations and artwork on its white walls and an intricate tiled floor that reminded me of a stone path. The menu is limited but includes several interesting choices such as kontosouvli (marinated chunks of grilled pork), a breaded chicken breast stuffed with spinach, cheese and red pepper, an artichoke dip and the obvious object of my affection. We ordered these items along with a Greek salad and some spinach pies, and a bottle of retsina (a terrible white wine that tastes like the Original Pine-Sol cleaning product) to wash it (no pun intended) all down. I guess the choice of retsina was the unfortunate byproduct of a poor wine list dominated by uninteresting Greek wines.

Of all the pork shanks I have had, this one was pretty darn good. It was perfectly cooked; the meat was juicy and the rinds crispy and a touch of dried herbs added a zest to the dish. I can confidently say that along with Beer Academy (the pork shank must be the only thing keeping that sad establishment in business), Souxou Mouxou Mantalakia makes the best kotsi I have had on The Rock. Come to think of it, I am now depressed for having missed out on Shank Night during last October's trip to Munich; I passed out at five p.m. courtesy of a sleepless Lufthansa flight followed by four liters of heavy beer and half a chicken (Best. Bird. Ever.) for breakfast/lunch at the Braurosl tent.

Besides the shank, the kontosouvli and stuffed chicken breasts were flavorful, lean yet tender and accompanied by potatoes cooked in different ways. This is a good time to divulge the fact that I do not eat potatoes and that I will refrain from reviewing them. I understand that on The Rock ignoring the spuds is the equivalent of kicking a Cypriot moufflon in the nuts or casually mentioning that Turkey makes better gyros. However, I do not enjoy them so please forgive me if I do not shower them with attention. The artichoke dip was a bit bland and overloaded with garlic, while the spinach pies could have used a few more minutes in the oven or pan to crisp up. Overall, though, the meats shone as is expected of any restaurant on this carnivorous island of ours. Shank God.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 4 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

Sy-lla-bi-fi-ca-tion

My first experience at Domus, a restaurant, bar and lounge housed in an old renovated mansion within Nicosia's Venetian walls, was four years ago for drinks in the ground floor. We were tightly packed, kind of like vacuum-sealed chunks of octopi legs in olive oil. Some of us leaned up against the bar stools, others stood immobilized by the patrons trying to navigate the contrived space, all of us felt our hair stand as our heads swept the dangerously low-lying ceiling and produced static electricity. The speakers screamed and we moved our jaws to the beat of the punchy music. Men craftily unhooked brassieres with their stare while women, dressed and accessorized in labels, repealed such approaches by turning away and sharing their disgust with their girlfriends. Trying to carry a conversation with someone involved setting your lips on that person's ear and barking out questions that required either monosyllabic responses or hand gestures. Most people, some holding martini glasses or tumblers full of ice and strong liquors, were undoubtedly there "to see" and "be seen." Yet, at the end of the night, "seeing" was as far as they would go; no one there wanted high society to judge them for dragging a random stranger home for an after-party short (or long) stack of blueberry pancakes. I still thank whiskey for making my time there flash by and prevent me from bitch-slapping those fools who dared ridicule my obtuse outfit. Granted, the ground floor lounge has been renovated since I last went but I am still guessing it ain't my cup of chamomile.

On the other hand, the restaurant upstairs, thanks to its small rooms and spread-out tables, provides diners with a sense of privacy that is nonexistent below. White curtains and walls separate the many different dining spaces which in one way or another mimic the set of a David Lynch movie; framed mirrors of all shapes and sizes cover the walls, the lighting is exorbitantly dim, antique chandeliers sway above and rustic hardwood floors menacingly creak under one's footstep. The Wife, Ph.D., and I sat in a long corner table usually reserved for six, my female companion hogging the beautiful Victorian-style purplish sofa that faced the main corridor into the restaurant. Several long crystal teardrops (or, uhm, spermatozoa if you are of a one-track mind) hung from the high ceiling and provided a great deal of depth to what is basically a hallway pretending to be a dining room, while down-tempo electronic music (St. Germain and The Gotan Project, among others) played in the background. As soon as we sat, I selected the 2009 Domaine Sigalas Assyrtiko from Santorini and within a few minutes my precious was poured, revealing its citrus and mineral aromas and flavors.

The extensive menu is "gourmet" for Nicosian standards and by no means inexpensive. As a starter, we ordered a wonderfully crisp parsnip, carrot, beet, celery and Granny Smith apple salad tossed in a light yogurt dressing with fresh herbs. The Wife, Ph.D., who I intuit was a vegetarian or grass-venerating cow in a past life, loved the salad so much she asked me to replicate it at home. Instead, here's a shout-out to the chef or sous-chef: if you happen to read this, how about (pretty please) leaving the recipe as a comment and saving me countless hours of experimentation? My only caveat with the salad was that the celery was cut too thick and overwhelmed, both texture and flavor-wise, the rest of the ingredients. In any case, we followed our appetizer with a stewed hare accompanied by steamed asparagus and a basic Parmesan risotto and a pumpkin, sun-dried tomatoes and ricotta cheese risotto for the herbivorous one. The hare was meaty, juicy and tender and both risottos were creamy, packed with flavor and al dente. We enjoyed every bite of our dishes, even though, in my opinion, the portions were somewhat large for a high-end restaurant. Then again, we live on The Rock and nouvelle cuisine, molecular gastronomy and its associated bite-sized meals have not been generally well received by the locals. Remember, there's no denying that meze and its massive quantities set the rules of the domestic culinary game.

Whine On The Rocks Rating: 4.5 out of 5 Sparkling Spatulas

America Never Dies

Some holidays are not meant to be enjoyed. Yesterday was my choice du jour. Green Monday for those of you still unripe bananas in the art of sin or Clean Monday for those who have been bestowed by the heavens with the DNA makeup of a saint. In any case, it marks the day you are supposed to stop sinning (not if you never have, oh holy ones) and give up those foods which, when push comes to shove, are the most delicious. Say bye-bye to steak, cheese, omelets and rich eclairs.

Most years we end up in an unkempt plot of land by the beach eating greens like famished cattle and grilled seafood (no fishiness, mind you) on paper plates and with dull plastic cutlery. After lunch, the children clumsily try to fly polychromatic kites with their patient fathers or uncles as Master and Commander of the Wind, only to get frustrated as the fluttering diamonds crash onto the rough terrain for the umpteenth time. Now officially bored, the kids run off like an excited troop of monkeys to kick a football among the brush while their mothers pray there are no sprained ankles or bloodied knees. The restroom is over some weeds behind a largish fig tree and the only electricity available comes either from a portable generator or one of the pick-up truck's cigarette lighter receptacle. The trucks or jeeps or Hummers (for the posher yet more wasteful families) are essential to carry the folding chairs and tables, ice boxes, grills, disposable china and produce needed to give the luncheon a small semblance of civility. Beer is poured and wine bottles are uncorked yet for some reason the roughshod set-up, cornucopia of vegetables and dearth of dairy always put me in a finicky mood.

For a change, this year we stayed in Nicosia and enacted this lavish festivity in The Wife, Ph.D.'s godparents' backyard. The kitchen counter and dining table resembled a cross between a colorful stand in a farmer's market and your fishmonger's latest wet dream involving mollusks. I would love to list all the bulbs and leaves and seeds and nuts and fungi and maritime beasts available for the malnourishment of the guests but I fear that would read like a mean judge's sentence for a carnivore who refused to eat his green beans. Obviously, since I am an amateur chef, I chose to actively participate in the soiree by cooking up some mussels a la Provencale and stuffing my face with Russian caviar and chunks of bread generously spread with taramosalata, or what I have anointed as Poseidon's elixir. Despite my healthy servings of fish roe and The Wife, Ph.D.'s dexterity in peeling my shrimps, I still felt like I lost three kilograms just from sorely missing "real" food.

Luckily enough, wine has not (yet) been forbidden by the church on this day so we all drank merrily, some of us probably just enough to tie us down until we flew past the No-Ribeye Zone. I shared a bottle of the 2007 Santowines Grand Reserve Assyrtiko with the crowds and then opened a 2009 Moulin de Gassac's Guilhem, a bombastic and fruity Syrah, Grenache, Carignan and Cinsault blend from Languedoc Roussillon that for roughly five Euros is worth guzzling down.

As I served myself a fourth glass of wine, the pain within my empty stomach failing to subside, I heard The Wife, Ph.D.'s communist uncle exclaim (in a voice vaguely reminiscent of a born-and-bred Texan, Oklahoman or Alabaman patriot) that "America never dies!" I shook my head in dismay, wrote down the phrase on my notepad and understood then and there that turning back was no longer an option. To be honest with you, not even the arrival of a twenty-five thousand liter Petrolina tank truck filled with a First Growth Bordeaux for the masses would have salvaged the day. Just imagine my predicament: stuck on The Rock masquerading as a pescetarian for the day with the commies praising the good old USA. Damn. Lights. Out.

A Case Of Questions With Jean-Philippe Cros, Oenothiki "La Caudalie"

Most of you know Jean-Philippe Cros as The French Connoisseur, or Whine On The Rocks Resident Guru, Yogi, Sensei and Viticultural Expert. He is also the proud owner of Oenothiki La Caudalie, "an international wine trader which specializes in the purchase, wholesale and retail of fine French wines in Cyprus." As part of his vinous mission, Jean-Philippe travels once or twice a year to his motherland in search of unique wines produced by smallish estates, always to return stockpiled with wonderful gems previously unavailable to The Rock. Albeit limited, his current wine selection is of excellent quality thanks to a tasking and meticulous screening process, and Oenothiki La Caudalie aims to considerably expand its offerings and better cater to a growing Cypriot demand for fine wines.

Jean-Philippe took some time off from his arduous triathlon training regime to sit down and answer "A Case of Questions" for Whine On The Rocks. In the meantime, the Disney-Obsessed Man-Child and I train for our own "athletic" competition involving perfectly grilled lamb chops, beer steins topped to the rim with Weissbier and a Lord of The Rings/Harry Potter movie marathon.

Why wine?

JPC: Firstly, because I was born in an area where wine cannot possibly be ignored even if you try hard. Secondly, the wine cellar at home has always been an inspiration. And finally, for the conviviality a bottle of wine conveys.

First wine that really captured your attention? How old were you?

JPC: I can very well remember my first few glasses of Chateau Haut-Marbuzet. This is the day I definitely fell in the wine barrel. I am not sure about the vintage (early 80s); I drank it more than twenty years ago with close family and friends over a nice homemade dinner. 

All-time favorite bottle of wine?

JPC: There are a few candidates, all of them famous estates of the Bordeaux area. I cannot really choose between them: Chateau Latour 1985 drank four years ago, Chateau Palmer 1982 drank two years ago, [and] Chateau Cheval Blanc 1985 drank five years ago. Pretty much anyone who would have tasted any of these wines would have counted them as part of their all-time favorites. I was just lucky to drink them. I should also add that, in a less fortunate way, I was also more than once disappointed by wines this old or older from prestigious estates and vintages. 

Favorite wine-producing region? Why?

JPC: I very much like the vast Languedoc-Roussillon area. It is so diverse that a lifetime would not suffice to properly describe it. It is a fascinating experience to simply pick a direction and drive around to meet up with the winemakers who have completely turned around this area within less than thirty years.

Favorite wine-and-food pairing?

JPC: For top of the top wines, I am of the opinion of this famous French chef when he was asked what dish he should pair up with a Lafite Rothschild 1982. His answer was: nothing, the wine should be enjoyed on its own. I however agree that wine and food can also be perfect partners. I personally like to match white wines with cheeses.

What is Cyprus missing when it comes to wine?

JPC: In my opinion, Cyprus does not lack anything to make simple yet very enjoyable reds. Beyond this level, I am not sure there is a terroir. My main concern is the extremely high temperatures and long drought over the summer months; it seems to me that it will always be an immense challenge to find the variety and the location that would [offer a] chance to produce anything [other] than a varietal wine or a stereotype of what many so-called "New World Wines" do already offer--a possibly pleasant wine [but] certainly without personality. But Cyprus counts [with] several talented winemakers who may--hopefully--prove me wrong. Who knows: a Maratheftiko from the highest villages in the Troodos region may one day bluff everyone.

What do you foresee for Cyprus's wine industry?

JPC: I believe it will always be tough to compete for those who continue to produce purely varietal wines at a price three times above, for example, a Chilean wine or even a basic Bordeaux. However, with demand increasing worldwide, there is definitely a place [in] the market for many. If I was directly involved, I would however focus on what could be unique to Cyprus such as a properly made Commandaria [or] a red from the endemic variety Maratheftiko and then fight for recognition.

What do you enjoy most about your work in the wine world?

JPC: Scouting for wines especially those little estates [that] keep themselves well away from guides and wine critics. Then, of course, opening a bottle from one of these estates and sharing it with friends.

What is your "Five Year Plan" for your business?

JPC: Continuing to support our food and beverage industry clients; consolidating our wine list, [and]; bringing newly discovered wines to our private clients.

Who is your favorite wine personality? Why?

JPC: The owner of the next small estate I will discover and then pay a visit to: I am sure my plan will be to stay there [for] not more than forty-five minutes but that, as [it] often [happens], I will not leave until dark, probably needing yet again a taxi...but full of unbelievable stories to tell.

Any embarrassing episodes involving spilled wine, corkscrews, sommeliers or drunken behavior?

JPC: I cannot think of anything here. Editor's note: That's awfully lame.

Of course, your all-time favorite island wine?

JPC: I would still vote Vlassides Shiraz as top although I have recently been disappointed in the context of a Cyprus Shiraz blind tasting... it may have been a bad bottle... or maybe it was my host trying to poison me...

For more information on Oenothiki La Caudalie, please visit their website at www.oenothiki.com.

Running Wild!

6:40 am: Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep beep beep beep beep. Bang. Ugh. Fuck me.

6:50 am: After drinking a glass of fresh orange juice, I am tempted to stuff my face with a slice or two of leftover cold pizza. Energy, I think. I desist once I picture myself writhing in pain as I approach the two-kilometer marker and dropping on the median like a lumbering uncoordinated adolescent trying to run the 3000-meter steeplechase. Or pole vault for that matter. The sexy paramedic of my daydream--her name is Morphine--does however spoon-feed me chocolate-chip pancakes and crispy bacon before I pass out on the gurney.

6:55 am: I read four pages of Gary Shteyngart's Absurdistan. Figures I would be reading a novel about an overweight Americanized college graduate trying to find his calling in life prior to my first official race. Satire inspires more satire.

7:00 am: The French Connoisseur picks me up for the drive to Limassol to participate in the Atlantica 10km organized by the Limassol Marathon. He is as fresh as a celery stalk.

7:07 am: We pick up the Disney-Obsessed Man-Child. I thought he would wear Mickey ears, a Goofy t-shirt and a Pluto snout for the race but instead he just looks drunk.

8:00 am: We are enveloped by dark clouds, strong winds and inconsiderate rain showers as we park the car near the start/finish line. We fear for our lungs lives. I do point out that if it continues to pour, the race might metamorphose into a rather fascinating Spring Break wet t-shirt contest. Here's hoping there are tons of women jogging in white. Shit, did I just say that out loud?

8:55 am: The menacing weather is gone. The sun we are so used to as The Rock's proud inhabitants has returned to stake claim over his land. Rain is always welcome on this island burdened by water shortages. But I think we are all glad the reservoirs will not be further replenished today.

9:06 am: I cross myself and invoke the spirit of Jefferson Perez, Ecuador's all-time greatest athlete. Ironically enough, he is not even a runner; he is a race walker. Still, he "walks" twenty kilometers in under an hour and twenty minutes so I assume he will be of assistance. The race commences. I bid farewell to the Disney-Obsessed Man-Child, wishing him a pleasant race. He pumps his fists like a mad man and runs off while blasting Bon Jovi's Greatest Hits on his iPod. You go girl.

9:15 am: Music-less and in dire need of motivation, I decide to focus my attention on the gluteus maximus of an attractive Eastern European woman clad in a fluorescent lime green top and tight Lycra leggings. Her firm glutes move up and down like engine pistons, and I get into a nice rhythm immediately behind her. That is until she picks up her pace and leaves her ogler in the dust.

9:25 am: Roadkill is not uncommon in Cyprus, particularly that of the feline variety. You see, The Rock is overrun by undomesticated cats. Legend says that Saint Helena, worried by the surge in snakes on the island following a drought, asked her son, Emperor Constantine I, to populate the land with cats that would feed on the vermin. So it was only slightly disturbing to catch a glimpse of a trampled and bloodied cat by the side of the road as I buzzed over it at the mind-warping speed of nine-point-five kilometers per hour.

9:45 am: I wonder who cleans the roads and sidewalks of the hundreds of half-empty water bottles and moist, dirtied sponges handed by eager volunteers to the runners. Cheers to them. I also hope the leftover water is poured into a nearby dam for future consumption and the plastic bottles recycled. [This message has been brought to you by The Wife, Ph.D's Cyprus Recycling Adoption Program or CRA...]

10:05 am: A Pole, both in build and nationality, darts past me and claims first place in the half-marathon. A few seconds later, a Russki half-marathoner does the same and finishes second. God I need a brewski. This is pathetic. All that is left now is for The French Connoisseur, also a half-marathoner, to slap me on the ass, briefly turn around and make those silly faces that entertain newborns as he rockets by me.

10:10 am: I turn left into the Limassol boardwalk. Electronic music blares from the speakers ahead of me. Fans line up against the right-hand railing that marks the final two hundred meters of the race; they clap in unison, they cheer, they encourage us to give it one last push. Amateur photographers, one knee touching the asphalt or standing on the short wall that meets the crashing waves to the left, snap away. I pick up the pace and I am now supersonic. The clock ticks forth. As I close in on the finish line, the alley narrows. I feel closer to everyone: the crowd, the runners, the journalists, the volunteers, the casual spectators, even the Gods in Olympus who are mocking my dearth of athleticism. I can touch them, I can hear them, I can smell their effort, their envy, their praise, their passion, their pride. It is all a blur as I cross the finish line in 1:03:49 and a volunteer places a medal around my neck. I never understood the joy of running just for the sake of running. Now I do and I might have caught the bug.

11:30 am: Talking about bugs. The Wife, Ph.D., and Minnie Mouse refuse to join us for a celebratory lunch up in the mountains unless we shower. So the Disney-Obsessed Man-Child borrows a friend's apartment in Limassol for about an hour. While lathering up, Gregor Samsa's long-lost third cousin pays me a visit. At first, I believe the ticklish sensation is cold water streaming down my tired right calf. But then I look down to see the horny roach running its own race up my leg. Where are the damn cats when you need them?

2:00 pm: A well-deserved lunch at Orea Ellas, a wonderful Greek tavern in Vouni, Troodos Mountains. We polish off two bottles of the 2007 Tsiakkas Bambakada (Maratheftiko) along with the grilled cheese, Greek salad, parsley dip, tyrokafteri, garlicky tzatziki, zucchini croquettes, feta pies, grilled florina peppers, biftekia (pork burgers), wine-soaked sausages, baked potatoes, perfectly roasted chicken and pork, village pasta, stuffed rice and luscious desserts set before us. All of this while making plans to partake in a Sprint Triathlon in September and a half-marathon in 2012. The Wife, Ph.D., you've been warned: book the masseuse or pick me a cheap coffin.